
Book ijN/„l_3lG 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



The Book of 
American Negro Poetry 



CHOSEN AND EDITED 
WITH AN ESSAY ON THE 

NLGRO'5 CREATIVE GENIU5 



BY 

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON 

Author of " Fifty Years and Other Poems" 




NEW YORK 

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 



^'> 



COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 



SI*' 



PRINTED IN THE U. 8. A BY 

THE QUINN a BODEN COMPANY 

RAHWAY, N. J. 



MAR 20 1922 
©CI.A6o9211 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface • • • 1/ ^" 

Paul Laurence Dunbar 

A Negro Love Song 3 

Little Brown Baby 5 

Ships That Pass in the Night 7 

Lover's Lane 8 

The Debt 10 

The Haunted Oak 11 

When de Co'n Pone's Hot 14 

A Death Song 16 

James Edwin Campbell 

Nfe;ro Serenade 17 

D. Cunjah Man 18 

Uncle Eph's Banjo Song 20 

or Doc' Hyar 21 

When Ol' Sis' Judy Pray 23 

Compensation 25 

James D. Corrothers 

At the Closed Gate of Justice 27 

Paul Laurence Dunbar 28 

The Negro Singer 29 

The Road to the Bow 30 

In the Matter of Two Men 32 

An Indignation Dinner 34 

Dream and the Song 36 

Daniel Webster Davis 

*Weh Down Souf 39 

Hog Meat 41 

William H. A. Moore 

Dusk Song 43 

It Was Not Fate 46 

W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 

A Litany of Atlanta 49 

iii 



iv Contents 

George Marion McClellan page 

Dogwood Blossoms 55 

A Butterfly in Church 56 

The Hills of Sewanee 57 

The Feet of Judas 58 

William Stanley Braithwaite 

Sandy Star and Willie Gee 59 

I. Sculptured Worship 
II. Laughing It Out 

III. The Exit 

IV. The Way 

V. Onus Probandi 

Del Cascar 63 

Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves 64 

Ironic: LL.D 65 

Scintilla 66 

Sic Vita 67 

Rhapsody 68 

George Reginald Margetson 

Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry So- 
ciety 69 

James Weldon Johnson 

O Black and Unknown Bards 73 

Sence You Went Away . 75 

The Creation 76 

The White Witch 80 

Mother Night 83 

O Southland 84 

Brothers 85 

Fifty Years 89 

John Wesley Holloway 

Miss Melerlee 93 

Calling the Doctor 94 

The Corn Song 96 

Black Mammies 98 

Leslie Pinckney Hill 

Tuskegee loi 

Christmas at Melrose •. 102 

'Summer Magic 104 

The Teacher 105 

Edward Smyth Jones 

A Song of Thanks 107 



Contents V 

Ray G. Dandridge page 

Time to Die 109 

'Ittle Touzle Head no 

Zaika Peetruza 112 

Sprin' Fevah 113 

De Drum Majah 114 

Fenton Johnson 

Children of the Sun . . , 117 

The New Day 119 

Tired 121 

The Banjo Player 122 

The Scarlet Woman 123 

R. Nathaniel Dett 

The Rubinstein Staccato Etude 125 

Georgia Douglas Johnson 

The Heart of a Woman 127 

Youth 128 

Lost Illusions 129 

I Want to Die While You Love Me .... 130 

Welt 131 

My Little Dreams 132 

Claude McKay 

The Lynching 133 

If We Must Die 134 

To the White Fiends 13*5 

The Harlem Dancer 136 

Harlem Shadows 137 

After the Winter 138 

Spring in New Hampshire 139 

The Tired Worker 140 

The Barrier 141 

To O. E. A 142 

Flame-Heart 143 

Two-an'-Six 145 

Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. 

A Prayer 151 

And What Shall You Say? 152 

Is It Because I Am Black? 153 

The Band of Gideon 154 

Rain Music 156 

Supplication 157 

RoscoE C. Jamison 

The Negro Soldiers . . , , , , , . 159 



vi Contents 

Jessie Fauset page 

La Vie C'est la Vie i6i 

Christmas Eve in France 162 

Dead Fires 164. 

Oriflamme 165 

Oblivion 166 

Anne Spencer 

Before the Feast of Shushan 167 

At the Carnival 169 

The Wife-Woman 171 

Translation . . 173 

Dunbar 174 

Alex Rogers 

Why Adam Sinned . . 175 

The Rain Song 177 

Waverley Turner Carmichael 

Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me 181 

Winter Is Coming 182 

Alice Dunbar-Nelson 

Sonnet 183 

Charles Bertram Johnson 

A Little Cabin 185 

Negro Poets 187 

Otto Leland Bohanan 

The Dawn's Awake! 189 

The Washer-Woman 190 

Theodore Henry Shackelford 

The Big Bell in Zion » . . 191 

LuciAN B. Watkins 

Star of Ethiopia 193 

Two Points of View 194 

To Our Friends 195 

Benjamin Brawley 

My Hero 197 

Chaucer 199 

Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. 

To a Skull 201 



Preface 

There is, perhaps, a better excuse for giving an Anthol- 
ogy of American Negro Poetry to the public than can be 
offered for many of the anthologies that have recently 
been issued. The public, generally speaking, does not 
know that there are American Negro poets — to supply 
this lack of information is, alone, a work worthy of some- 
body's effort. 

Moreover, the matter of Negro poets and the produc- 
tion of literature by the colored people in this country X 
involves more than supplying information that is lacking. 
It is a matter which has a direct bearing on the most 
vital of American problems. 

A people may become great through many means, but 
there is only one measure by which its greatness is recog- 
nized and acknowledged. The final measure of the great- 
ness of all peoples is the amount and standard of the 
literature and art they have produced. The world does 
not know that a people is great until that people pro- 
duces great literature and art. No people that has pro- 
duced great literature and art has ever been looked upon 
by the world as distinctly inferior. 

The status of the Negro in the United States is more 
a question of national mental attitude toward the race 
than of actual conditions. And nothing will do more 
to change that mental attitude and raise his status than 
a demonstration of intellectual parity by the Negro 
through the production of literature and art. 

vii 



¥ 



viii Preface 

Is there likelihood that the American Negro will be 
able to do this? There is, for the good reason that he 
possesses the innate powers. He has the emotional en- 
dowment, the originality and artistic conception, and, 
what is more important, the power of creating that which 
has universal appeal and influence. 

I make here what may appear to be a more startling 
statement by saying that the Negro has already proved 
the possession of these powers by being the creator of the 
only things artistic that have yet sprung from American 
soil and been universally acknowledged as distinctive 
American products. 

These creations by the American Negro may be 
summed up under four heads. The first two are the 
Uncle Remus stories, which were collected by Joel Chand- 
ler Harris, and the "spirituals" or slave songs, to which 
the Fisk Jubilee Singers made the public and the musi- 
cians of both the United States and Europe listen. The 
Pficle Remus stories constitute the greatest body of folk- 
tylore that America has produced, and the "spirituals" the 
greatest body of folk-song. I shall speak of the "spir- 
ituals" later because they are more than folk-songs, for in 
them the Negro sounded the depths, if he did not scale 
the heights, of music. 

The other two creations are the cakewalk and ragtime. 
We do not need to go very far back to remember when 
cakewalking was the rage in the United States, Europe 
and South America. Society in this country and royalty 
abroad spent time in practicing the intricate steps. Paris 
pronounced it the "poetry of motion." The popularity of 
the Cakewalk passed away but its influence remained. 



Preface ix 

The influence can be seen to-day on any American stage 
where there is dancing. 

The influence which the Negro has exercised on the 
art of dancing in this country has been almost absolute. 
For generations the ''buck and wing" and the "stop-time" 
dances, which are strictly Negro, have been familiar to 
American theatre audiences. A few years ago the public 
discovered the "turkey trot," the "eagle rock," "ballin' the 
jack," and several other varieties that started the modern 
dance craze. These dances were quickly followed by the 
"tango," a dance originated by the Negroes of Cuba and 
later transplanted to South America. (This fact is 
attested by no less authority than Vincente Blasco Ibanez 
in his "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.") Half the 
floor space in the country was then turned over to dancing, 
and highly paid exponents sprang up everywhere. The 
most noted, Mr. Vernon Castle, and, by the way, an 
Englishman, never danced except to the music of a colored 
band, and he never failed to state to his audiences that 
most of his dances had long been done by "your colored 
people," as he put it. 

Any one who witnesses a musical production in which 
there is dancing cannot fail to notice the Negro stamp on 
all the movements; a stamp which even the great vogue 
of Russian dances that swept the country about the time 
of the popular dance craze could not affect. That pecu- 
liar swaying of the shoulders which you see done every- 
where by the blond girls of the chorus is nothing more 
than a movement from the Negro dance referred to above, 
the "eagle rock." Occasionally the movement takes on 
a suggestion of the, now outlawed, "shimmy." 



X Preface 

As for Ragtime, I go straight to the statement that 
it is the one artistic production by which America is 
known the world over. It has been all-conquering. 
Everywhere it is hailed as "American music." 

For a dozen years or so there has been a steady tend- 
ency to divorce Ragtime from the Negro; in fact, to 
take from him the credit of having originated it. Prob- 
ably the younger people of the present generation do 
not know that Ragtime is of Negro origin. The change 
wrought in Ragtime and the way in which it is accepted 
by the country have been brought about chiefly through 
the change which has gradually been made in the words 
and stories accompanying the music. Once the text of 
all Ragtime songs was written in Negro dialect, and was 
about Negroes in the cabin or in the cotton field or on 
the levee or at a jubilee or on Sixth Avenue or at a ball, 
and about their love affairs. To-day, only a small pro- 
portion of Ragtime songs relate at all to the Negro. The 
truth is, Ragtime is now national rather than racial. But 
that does not abolish in any way the claim of the Ameri- 
can Negro as its originator. 

Ragtime music was originated by colored piano players 
in the questionable resorts of St. Louis, Memphis, and 
other Mississippi River towns. These men did not know 
any more about the theory of music than they did about 
the theory of the universe. They were guided by their 
natural musical instinct and talent, but above all by the 
Negro's extraordinary sense of rhythm. Any one who is 
familiar with Ragtime may note that its chief charm is 
not in melody, but in rhythms. These players often 



Preface xi 

improvised crude and, at times, vulgar vrords to fit the 
music. This was the beginning of the Ragtime song. 

Ragtime music got its first popular hearing at Chicago 
during the world's fair in that city. From Chicago it 
made its way to New York, and then started on its uni- 
versal triumph. 

The earliest Ragtime songs, like Topsy, *'jes' grew." 
Some of these earliest songs were taken down by white 
men, the words slightly altered or changed, and published 
under the names of the arrangers. They sprang into im- 
mediate popularity and earned small fortunes. The first 
to become widely known was ''The Bully," a levee song 
which had been long used by roustabouts along the Mis- 
sissippi. It was introduced in New York by Miss May 
Irwin, and gained instant popularity. Another one of 
these "jes* grew" songs was one which for a while dis- 
puted for place with Yankee Doodle; perhaps, disputes 
it even to-day. That song was ''A Hot Time in the Old 
Town To-night"; introduced and made popular by the 
colored regimental bands during the Spanish-American 
War. 

Later there came along a number of colored men who 
were able to transcribe the old songs and write original 
ones. I was, about that time, writing words to music 
for the music show stage in New York. I was collabo- 
rating with my brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, and the 
late Bob Cole. I remember that we appropriated about 
the last one of the old "jes* grew" songs. It was a song 
which had been sung for years all through the South. 
The words were unprintable, but the tune was irresistible, 
and belonged to nobody. We took it, re-wrote the verses, 



xu 



Preface 



telling an entirely different story from the original, left 
the chorus as it was, and published the song, at first under 
the name of "Will Handy." It became very popular with 
college boys, especially at football games, and perhaps 
still is. The song was, '*Oh, Didn't He Ramble!" 

In the beginning, and for quite a while, almost all of 
the Ragtime songs that were deliberately composed were 
the work of colored writers. Now, the colored composers, 
even in this particular field, are greatly outnumbered by 
the white. 

The reader might be curious to know if the "jes' grew" 
songs have ceased to grow. No, they have not; they are 
growing all the time. The country has lately been flooded 
with several varieties of "The Blues." These "Blues," 
too, had their origin in Memphis, and the towns along 
the Mississippi. They are a sort of lament of a lover 
who is feeling "blue" over the loss of his sweetheart. The 
"Blues" of Memphis have been adulterated so much on 
Broadway that they have lost their pristine hue. But 
whenever you hear a piece of music which has a strain 
like this in it: 




you will know you are listening to something which be- 
longed originally to Beale Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. 



Preface xiii 

The original "Memphis Blues,'* so far as it can be cred- 
ited to a composer, must be credited to Mr. W. C. Handy, 
a colored musician of Memphis. 

As illustrations of the genuine Ragtime song in the 
making, I quote the words of two that were popular with 
the Southern colored soldiers in France. Here is the 
first: 

"Mah mammy's lyin' in her grave, 

Mah daddy done run away, 
Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, 

An' I've done gone astray. 
Yes, I've done gone astray, po' boy. 

An' I've done gone astray, 
Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, 

An' I've done gone astray, po' boy." 

These lines are crude, but they contain something of 
real poetry, of that elusive thing which nobody can define 
and that you can only tell that it is there when you feel 
it. You cannot read these lines without becoming reflec- 
tive and feeling sorry for "Po' Boy." 

Now, take in this word picture of utter dejection : 



"I'm jes' as misabul as I can be, 
I'm unhappy even if I am free, 
I'm feelin' down, I'm feelin' blue; 
I wander 'round, don't know what to do. 
I'm go'n lay mah haid on de railroad line. 
Let de B. & O. come and pacify mah min'." 



These lines are, no doubt, one of the many versions 
of the famous "Blues." They are also crude, but they 
go straight to the mark. The last two lines move with 
the swiftness of all great tragedy. 



XIV Preface 

In spite of the bans which musicians and music teachers 
have placed on it, the people still demand and enjoy 
Ragtime. In fact, there is not a corner of the civilized 
world in which it is not known and liked. And this 
proves its originality, for if it were an imitation, the 
people of Europe, at least, would not have found it a 
novelty. And it is proof of a more important thing, it 
is proof that Ragtime possesses the vital spark, the power 
to appeal universally, without which any artistic produc- 
tion, no matter how approved its form may be, is dead. 

Of course, there are those who will deny that Ragtime 
is an artistic production. American musicians, especially, 
instead of investigating Ragtime, dismiss it with a con- 
temptuous word. But this has been the course of scholas- 
ticism in every branch of art. Whatever new thing the 
people like is pooh-poohed; whatever is popular is re- 
garded as not worth while. The fact is, nothing great 
or enduring in music has ever sprung full-fledged from 
the brain of any master; the best he gives the world he 
gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through 
the alembic of his genius. 

Ragtime deserves serious attention. There is a lot of 
colorless and vicious imitation, but there is enough that 
is genuine. In one composition alone, "The Memphis 
Blues," the musician will find not only great melodic 
beauty, but a polyphonic structure that is amazing. 

It is obvious that Ragtime has influenced, and in a 
large measure, become our popular music; but not many 
would know that it has influenced even our religious 
music. Those who are familiar with gospel hymns can 
at once see this influence if they will compare the songs 



Preface xv 

of thirty years ago, such as "In the Sweet Bye and Bye," 
"The Ninety and Nine," etc., with the up-to-date, synco- 
pated tunes that are sung in Sunday Schools, Christian 
Endeavor Societies, Y.M.C.A/s and like gatherings 
to-day. 

Ragtime has not only influenced American music, it 
has influenced American life; indeed, it has saturated 
American life. It has become the popular medium for 
our national expression musically. And who can say that 
it does not express the blare and jangle and the surge, too, 
of our national spirit? 

Any one who doubts that there is a peculiar heel- 
tickling, smile-provoking, joy-awakening, response-com- 
pelling charm in Ragtime needs only to hear a skillful 
performer play the genuine article, needs only to listen 
to its bizarre harmonies, its audacious resolutions often 
consisting of an abrupt jump from one key to another, 
its intricate rhythms in which the accents fall in the 
most unexpected places but in which the fundamental 
beat is never lost in order to be convinced. I believe 
it has its place as well as the music which draws from 
us sighs and tears. 

Now, these dances which I have referred to and Rag- 
time music may be lower forms of art, but they are evi- 
dence of a power that will some day be applied to the 
higher forms. And even now we need not stop at the 
Negro's accomplishment through these lower forms. In 
the "spirituals," or slave songs, the Negro has given 
America not only its only folksongs, but a mass of noble 
music. I never think of this music but that I am struck 



XVI 



Preface 



by the wonder, the miracle of its production. How did 
the men who originated these songs manage to do it? 
The sentiments are easily accounted for; they are, for the 
most part, taken from the Bible. But the melodies, where 
did they come from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, 
and others so wonderfully strong. Take, for instance, 
"Go Down, Moses"; I doubt that there is a stronger 
theme in the whole musical literature of the world. 



I ' ' 'II 

Oppressed so hard theycould not stand, Let my people go. Go down, Mo-ses, 







T=^ 



:^=^ 



way down in E-gypt land, Tell ole Pha-raoh, Let my people go. 



^ 



It is to be noted that whereas the chief characteristic 
of Ragtime is rhythm, the chief characteristic of the 
"spirituals" is melody. The melodies of "Steal Away to 
Jesus," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Nobody Knows 
de Trouble I See," "I Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray," 
"Deep River," "O, Freedom Over Me," and many others 
of these songs possess a beauty that is — what shall I say? 
poignant. In the riotous rhythms of Ragtime the 



Preface xvli 

Negro expressed his irrepressible buoyancy, his keen 
response to the sheer joy of living; in the "spirituals" he 
voiced his sense of beauty and his deep religious feeling. 

Naturally, not as much can be said for the words of 
these songs as for the music. Most of the songs are reli- 
gious. Some of them are songs expressing faith and en- 
durance and a longing for freedom. In the religious 
songs, the sentiments and often the entire lines are taken 
bodily from the Bible. However, there is no doubt that 
some of these religious songs have a meaning apart from 
the Biblical text. It is evident that the opening lines of 
"Go Down, Moses," 

"Go down, Moses, 

'Way down in Egypt land; 
Tell old Pharoah, 
Let my people go." 

have a significance beyond the bondage of Israel in Egypt. 
The bulk of the lines to these songs, as is the case in 
all communal music, is made up of choral iteration and 
incremental repetition of the leader's lines. If the words 
are read, this constant iteration and repetition are found 
to be tiresome; and it must be admitted that the lines 
themselves are often very trite. And, yet, there is fre- 
quently revealed a flash of real, primitive poetry. I give 
the following examples: 

"Sometimes I feel like an eagle in de air." 

. "You may bury me in de East, 
You may bury me in de West, 
But I'll hear de trumpet sound 
In-a dat mornin'." 



xviii Preface 

"I know de moonlight, I know de starlight; 

I lay dis body down. 
I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight; 

I lay dis body down. 
I know de graveyard, I know de graveyard, 

When I lay dis body down. 
I walk in de graveyard, I walk troo de graveyard 

To lay dis body down. 

"I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms; 
I lay dis body down. 
I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day 

When I lay dis body down. 
An' my soul an' yo' soul will meet in de day 
When I lay dis body down." 



Regarding the line, "I lay in de grave an' stretch out 
my arms," Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson of Bos- 
ton, one of the first to give these slave songs serious study, 
said : "Never it seems to me, since man first lived and 
suffered, was his infinite longing for peace uttered more 
plaintively than in that line." 

These Negro folksongs constitute a vast mine of mate- 
rial that has been neglected almost absolutely. The only 
w^hite vrriters who have in recent years given adequate 
attention and study to this music, that I know of, are 
Mr. H. E. Krehbiel and Mrs. Natalie Curtis Burlin. 
We have our native composers denying the worth and im- 
portance of this music, and trying to manufacture grand 
opera out of so-called Indian themes. 

But there is a great hope for the development of this 
music, and that hope is the Negro himself. A worthy 
beginning has already been made by Burleigh, Cook, John- 
son, and Dett. And there will yet come great Negro 



Preface xix 

composers who will take this music and voice through 
it not only the soul of their race, but the soul of America. 
And. does it not seem odd that this greatest gift of 
the Negro has been the most neglected of all he pos- 
sesses? Money and effort have been expended upon his 
development in every direction except this. This gift has 
been regarded as a kind of side show, something for 
occasional exhibition ; wherein it is the touchstone, it is 
the magic thing, it is that by which the Negro can bridge 
all chasms. No persons, however hostile, can listen to 
Negroes singing this wonderful music without having 
their hostility melted down. 

This power of the Negro to suck up the national spirit 
from the soil and create something artistic and original, 
which, at the same time, possesses the note of universal 
appeal, is due to a remarkable racial gift of adaptability; 
it is more than adaptability, it is a transfusive quality. 
And the Negro has exercised this transfusive quality not 
only here in America, where the race lives in large num- 
bers, but in European countries, where the number has 
been almost infinitesimal. 

Is it not curious to know that the greatest poet of 
Russia is Alexander Pushkin, a man of African descent; 
that the greatest romancer of France is Alexander Dumas, 
a man of African descent; and that one of the greatest 
musicians of England is Coleridge-Taylor, a man of 
African descent? 

The fact is fairly well known that the father of 
Dumas was a Negro of the French West Indies, and that 
the father of Coleridge-Taylor was a native-born African ; 



XX Preface 

but the facts concerning Pushkin's African ancestry are 
not so familiar. 

When Peter the Great was Czar of Russia, some po- 
tentate presented him with a full-blooded Negro of gigan- 
tic size. Peter, the most eccentric ruler of modern times, 
dressed this Negro up in soldier clothes, christened him 
Hannibal, and made him a special body-guard. 

But Hannibal had more than size, he had brain and 
ability. He not only looked picturesque and imposing in 
soldier clothes, he showed that he had in him the making 
of a real soldier. Peter recognized this, and eventually 
made him a general. He afterwards ennobled him, and 
Hannibal, later, married one of the ladies of the Russian 
court. This same Hannibal was great-grandfather of 
Pushkin, the national poet of Russia, the man who bears 
the same relation to Russian literature that Shakespeare 
bears to English literature. 

I know the question naturally arises: If out of the few 
Negroes who have lived in France there came a Dumas; 
and out of the few Negroes who have lived in England 
there came a Coleridge-Taylor; and if from the man who 
was at the time, probably, the only Negro in Russia there 
sprang that country's national poet, why have not the mil- 
lions of Negroes in the United States with all the emo- 
tional and artistic endowment claimed for them produced 
a Dumas, or a Coleridge-Taylor, or a Pushkin ? 

The question seems difficult, but there is an answer. 
The Negro In the United States is consuming all of his 
intellectual energy in this gruelling race-struggle. And 
the same statement may be made in a general way about 
the white South. Why does not the white South produce 



Preface xxi 

literature and art? The white South, too, is consuming 
all of its intellectual energy in this lamentable conflict. 
Nearly all of the mental efforts of the white South run 
through one narrow channel. The life of every Southern 
white man and all of his activities are impassably limited 
by the ever present Negro problem. And that is why, as 
Mr. H. L. Mencken puts it, in all that vast region, with 
its thirty or forty million people and its territory as 
large as a half a dozen Frances or Germanys, there is not 
a single poet, not a serious historian, not a creditable com- 
poser, not a critic good or bad, not a dramatist dead or 
alive. 

But, even so, the American Negro has accomplished 
something in pure literature. The list of those who have 
done so would be surprising both by its length and the 
excellence of the achievements. One of the great books 
written in this country since the Civil War is the work 
of a colored man, ''The Souls of Black Folk," by W. E. B. 
Du Bois. 

Such a list begins with Phillis Wheatley. In 1761 
a slave ship landed a cargo of slaves in Boston. Among 
them was a little girl seven or eight years of age. She 
attracted the attention of John Wheatley, a wealthy gen- 
tleman of Boston, who purchased her as a servant for his 
wife. Mrs. Wheatley was a benevolent woman. She 
noticed the girl's quick mind and determined to give her 
opportunity for its development. Twelve years later 
Phillis published a volume of poems. The book was 
brought out in London, where* Phillis was for several 
months an object of great curiosity and attention, 



xxii Preface 

PhlUis Wheatley has never been given her rightful 
place in American literature. By some sort of con- 
spiracy she is kept out of most of the books, especially 
the text-books on literature used in the schools. Of 
course, she is not a great American poet — and in her day 
there were no great American poets — ^but she is an 
important American poet. Her importance, if for no 
other reason, rests on the fact that, save one, she is the 
first in order of time of all the women poets of America. 
And she is among the first of all American poets to issue 
a volume. 

It seems strange that the books generally give space 
to a mention of Urian Oakes, President of Harvard 
College, and to quotations from the crude and lengthy 
elegy which he published in 1667; and print examples 
from the execrable versified version of the Psalms made 
by the New England divines, and yet deny a place to 
Phillis Wheatley. 

Here are the opening lines from the elegy by Oakes, 
which is quoted from in most of the books on American 
literature : 

"Reader, I am no poet, but I grieve. 
Behold here what that passion can do, 
That forced a verse without Apollo's leave, 
And whether the learned sisters would or no." 

There was no need for Urian to admit what his handi- 
work declared. But this from the versified Psalms is 
still worse, yet it is found in the books: 

"The Lord's song sing can we? being 
in stranger's land, then Let 
lose her skill my right hand if I 
Jerusalem forget." 



Preface xxiii 

Anne Bradstreet preceded Phillis Wheatley by a little 
over twenty years. She published her volume of poems, 
"The Tenth Muse," in 1750. Let us strike a com- 
parison between the two. Anne Bradstreet was a wealthy, 
cultivated Puritan girl, the daughter of Thomas Dudley, 
Governor of Bay Colony. Phillis, as we know, was a 
Negro slave girl born in Africa. Let us take them both 
at their best and in the same vein. The following stanza 
is from Anne's poem entitled "Contemplation": 

"While musing thus with contemplation fed, 
And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, 
The sweet tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, 
And chanted forth a most melodious strain, 
Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, 
I judged my hearing better than my sight, 
And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight." 

And the following is from Phillis' poem entitled 
"Imagination" : 

"Imagination! who can sing thy force? 
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? 
Soaring through air to find the bright abode, 
The empyreal palace of the thundering God, 
We on thy pinions can surpass the wind. 
And leave the rolling universe behind, 
From star to star the mental optics rove. 
Measure the skies, and range the realms above, 
There in one view we grasp the mighty whole. 
Or with new worlds amaze the unbounded soul." 

We do not think the black woman suffers much by com- 
parison with the white. Thomas Jefferson said of Phillis: 
"Religion has produced a Phillis Wheatley, but it could 
not produce a poet; her poems are beneath contempt." 
It is quite likely that' Jefferson's criticism was directed 
more against religion than against Phillis' poetry. On 



xxiv Preface 

the other hand, General George Washington wrote her 
with his own hand a letter in which he thanked her 
for a poem which she had dedicated to him. He, later, 
received her with marked courtesy at his camp at Cam- 
bridge. 

It appears certain that Phillls was the first person to 
apply to George Washington the phrase, "First in peace." 
The phrase occurs in her poem addressed to "His Excel- 
lency, General George Washington," written in 1775. 
The encomium, "First in war, first in peace, first in the 
hearts of his countrymen" was originally used in the reso- 
lutions presented to Congress on the death of Washing- 
ton, December, 1799. 

Phillis Wheatley's poetry is the poetry of the Eight- 
eenth Century. She wrote when Pope and Gray were 
supreme; it is easy to see that Pope was her model. Had 
she come under the influence of Wordsworth, Byron or 
Keats or Shelley, she would have done greater work. As 
it is, her work must not be judged by the work and stand- 
ards of a later day, but by the work and standards of 
her own day and her own contemporaries. By this method 
of criticism she stands out as one of the important char- 
acters in the making of American literature, without any 
allowances for her sex or her antecedents. 

According to "A Bibliographical Checklist of Ameri- 
can Negro Poetry," compiled by Mr. Arthur A. Schom- 
burg, more than one hundred Negroes in the United 
States have published volumes of poetry ranging in size 
from pamphlet^ to books of from one hundred to three 
hundred pages. ^ About thirty of these writers fill in the 



Preface xxv 

gap between Phillis Wheatley and Paul Laurence Dun- 
bar. Just here it is of interest to note that a Negro wrote 
and published a poem before Phillis Wheatley arrived in 
this country from Africa. He was Jupiter Hammon, a 
slave belonging to a Mr. Lloyd of Queens-Village, Long 
Island. In 1760 Hammon published a poem, eighty-eight 
lines in length, entitled "An Evening Thought, Salva- 
tion by Christ, with Penettential Cries." In 1788 he 
published "An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley, Ethio- 
pian Poetess in Boston, who came from Africa at eight 
years of age, and soon became acquainted with the Gospel 
of Jesus Christ." These two poems do not include all 
that Hammon wrote. 

The poets between Phillis Wheatley and Dunbar must 
be considered more in the light of what they attempted 
than of what they accomplished. Many of them showed 
marked talent, but barely a half dozen of them demon- 
strated even mediocre mastery of technique in the use 
of poetic material and forms. And yet there are several 
names that deserve mention. George M. Horton, Frances 
E. Harper, James M. Bell and Alberry A. Whitman, all 
merit consideration when due allowances are made for 
their limitations in education, training and general cul- 
ture. The limitations of Horton were greater than those 
of either of the others; he was born a slave in North 
Carolina in 1797, and as a young man began to compose 
poetry without being able to write it down. Later he 
received some instruction from professors of the Uni- 
versity of North Carolina, at which institution he was 
employed as a janitor. He published a volume of poems, 
"The Hope of Liberty," in 1829. 



xxvi Preface 

Mrs. Harper, Bell and Whitman would stand out if 
only for the reason that each of them 'attempted sustained 
work. Mrs. Harper published her first volume of poems 
in 1854, but later she published "Moses, a Story of the 
Nile," a poem which ran to 52 closely printed pages. 
Bell in 1864 published a poem of 28 pages in celebration 
of President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation. In 
1870 he published a poem of 32 pages in celebration of 
the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment to the Con- 
stitution. Whitman published his first volume of poems, 
a book of 253 pages, in 1877; but in 1884 he published 
"The Rape of Florida," an epic poem written in four 
cantos and done in the Spenserian stanza, and which ran 
to 97 closely printed pages. The poetry of both Mrs. 
Harper and of Whitman had a large degree of popularity; 
one of Mrs. Harper's books went through more than 
twenty editions. 

Of these four poets, it is Whitman who reveals not 
only the greatest imagination but also the more skillful 
workmanship. His lyric power at its best may be judged 
from the following stanza from the "Rape of Florida": 



"'Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; 
Upon the waters is my light canoe; 
Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make 
A music on the parting wave for you. 
Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; 
Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, 
Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!' 
This is the song that on the lake was sung, 
The boatman sang it when his heart was young." 

Some idea of Whitman's capacity for dramatic nar- 
ration may be gained from the following lines taken from 



Preface xxvii 

"Not a Man, and Yet a Man," a poem of even greater 
length than "The Rape of Florida" : 

"A flash of steely lightning from his hand, 
Strikes down the groaning leader of the band; 
Divides his startled comrades, and again 
Descending, leaves fair Dora's captors slain. 
Her, seizing then within a strong embrace, 
Out in the dark he wheels his flying pace; 

He speaks not, but with stalwart tenderness 
Her swelling bosom firm to his doth press; 
Springs like a stag that flees the eager hound. 
And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground. 
Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er 
His shoulders, streaming to his waist and more; 
While on and on, strong as a rolling flood, 
His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood." 

It is curious and interesting to trace the growth of 
individuality and race consciousness in this group of poets. 
Jupiter Hammon's verses vv^ere almost entirely religious 
exhortations. Only very seldom does Phillis Wheatley 
sound a native note. Four times in single lines she refers 
to herself as "Afric's muse." In a poem of admonition 
addressed to the students at the "University of Cambridge 
in New England" she refers to herself as follows: 

"Ye blooming plants of human race divine. 
An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe." 

But one looks in vain for some outburst or even complaint 
against the bondage of her people, for some agonizing 
cry about her native land. In two poems she refers 
definitely to Africa as her home, but in each instance 
there seems to be under the sentiment of the lines a 
feeling of almost smug contentment at her own escape 



xxviii Preface 

therefrom. In tke poem, ''On Being Brought from Africa 
to America," she says: 

" 'Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, 
Taught my benighted soul to understand 
That there's a God and there's a Saviour too; 
Once I redemption neither sought or knew. 
Some view our sable race with scornful eye, 
'Their color is a diabolic dye.' . 
Remember, Christians, Negroes black as Cain, 
May be refined, and join th' angelic train." 

In the poem addressed to the Earl of Dartmouth, she 
speaks of freedom and makes a reference to the parents 
from whom she was taken as a child, a reference which 
cannot but strike the reader as rather unimpassioned : 

"Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, 
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, 
Whence flow these wishes for the common good. 
By feeling hearts alone best understood; 
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate 
Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat; 
What pangs excruciating must molest, 
• What sorrows labor in my parents' breast? 
Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd 
That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd ; 
Such, such my case. And can I then but pray 
Others may never feel tyrannic sway?" 

The bulk of Phillis Wheatley's work consists of poems 
addressed to people of prominence. Her book was dedi- 
cated to the Countess of Huntington, at whose house 
she spent the greater part of her time while in England. 
On his repeal of the Stamp Act, she wrote a poem to 
King George III, whom she saw later; another poem she 
wrote to the Earl of Dartmouth, whom she knew. A 
number of her verses were addressed to other persons of 



Preface xxix 

distinction. Indeed, it is apparent that Phillis was far 
from being a democrat. She was far from being a demo- 
crat not only in her social ideas but also in her political 
ideas; unless a religious meaning is given to the closing 
lines of her ode to General Washington, she was a decided 
royalist : 

"A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine 
With gold unfading, Washington! be thine." 

Nevertheless, she was an ardent patriot. Her ode to Gen- 
eral Washington (1775), her spirited poem, *'On Major 
General Lee" (1776) and her poem, "Liberty and Peace," 
written in celebration of the close of the war, reveal not 
only strong patriotic feeling but an understanding of the 
issues at stake. In her poem, "On Major General Lee," 
she makes her hero reply thus to the taunts of the British 
commander into whose hands he has been delivered 
through treachery 1 

"O arrogance of tongue! 
And wild ambition, ever prone to wrong! 
Believ'st thou, chief, that armies such as thine '' 

Can stretch in dust that heaven-defended line? 
In vain allies may swarm from distant lands. 
And demons aid in formidable bands, 
Great as thou art, thou shun'st the field of fame, 
Disgrace to Britain and the British name! 
When offer'd combat by the noble foe, 
(Foe to misrule) why did the sword forego 
The easy conquest of the rebel-land? 
Perhaps TOO easy for thy martial hand. 

What various causes to. the field invite! 
For plunder you, and we for freedom fight, 
Her cause divine with generous ardor fires. 
And every bosom glows as she inspires! 
Already thousands of your troops have fled 
To the drear mansions of the silent dead: 



XXX Preface 

Columbia, too, beholds with streaming eyes 

Her heroes fall — 'tis freedom's sacrifice! 

So wills the power who with convulsive storms 

Shakes impious realms, and nature's face deforms; 

Yet those brave troops, innum'rous as the sands, 

One soul inspires, one General Chief commands; 

Find in your train of boasted heroes, one 

To match the praise of Godlike Washington. 

Thrice happy Chief in whom the virtues join, 

And heaven taught prudence speaks the man divine." 

What Phlllis Wheatley failed to achieve is due in no 
small degree to her education and environment. Her 
mind was steeped in the classics; her verses are filled 
with classical and mythological allusions. She knew Ovid 
thoroughly and was familiar with other Latin authors. 
She must have known Alexander Pope by heart. And, 
too, she was reared and sheltered in a wealthy and cul- 
tured family, — a wealthy and cultured Boston family; 
she never had the opportunity to learn life; she never 
found out her own true relation to life and to her sur- 
roundings. And It should not be forgotten that she was 
only about thirty years old when she died. The impulsion 
or the compulsion that might have driven her genius off 
the worn paths, out on a journey of exploration, Phillis 
Wheatley never received. But, whatever her limitations, 
she merits more than America has accorded her. 

Horton, who was born three years after Phillis Wheat- 
ley's death, expressed in all of his poetry strong complaint 
at his condition of slavery and a deep longing for free- 
dom. The following verses are typical of his style and his 
ability : 



"Alas? and am I born for this, 
To wear this slavish chain? 



Preface xxxi 



Deprived of all created bliss, 
Through hardship, toil, and pain? 

Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound, 

Roll through my ravished ears; 
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, 

And drive away my fears." 

In Mrs. Harper we find something more than the 
complaint and the longing of Horton. We find an expres- 
sion of a sense of wrong and injustice. The following 
stanzas are from a poem addressed to the white women 
of America: 

"You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian 

Who weeps in her desolate home. 
You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia 

From kindred and friends doomed to roam. 

But hark! from our Southland are floating 

Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain. 
And women heart-stricken are weeping 

O'er their tortured and slain. 

Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, 

Just a plea, a prayer or a tear 
For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows 

Of agony, hatred and fear? 

Weep not, oh my well sheltered sisters, 

Weep not for the Negro alone. 
But weep for your sons who must gather 

The crops which their fathers have sown." 

Whitman, in the midst of ''The Rape of Florida," a 
poem in which he related the taking of the State of Flor- 
ida from the Seminoles, stops and discusses the race ques- 
tion. He discusses it in many other poems; and he dis- 
cusses it from many different angles. In Whitman 
we find not only an expression of a sense of wrong and 



xxxii Preface 

injustice, but we hear a note of faith and a note also 
of defiance. For example, in the opening to Canto II of 
''The Rape of Florida": 



"Greatness by nature cannot be entailed; 
It is an office ending with the man, — 
Sage, hero, Saviour, tho' the Sire be hailed. 
The son may reach obscurity in the van: 
Sublime achievements know no patent plan, 
Man's immortality's a book with seals, 
And none but God shall open — none else can — 
But opened, it the mystery reveals, — 
Manhood's conquest of man to heaven's respect appeals. 

"Is manhood less because man's face is black? 
Let thunders of the loosened seals reply! 
Who shall the rider's restive steed turn back. 
Or who withstand the arrows he lets fly 
Between the mountains of eternity? 
Genius ride forth! Thou gift and torch of heav'n! 
The mastery is kindled in thine eye; 
To conquest ride ! thy bow of strength is giv'n — 
The trampled hordes of caste before thee shall be driv'n! 



" 'Tis hard to judge if hatred of one's race. 
By those who deem themselves superior-born, 
Be worse than that quiescence in disgrace. 
Which only merits — and should only — scorn. 
Oh, let me see the Negro night and morn, 
Pressing and fighting in, for place and power! 
All earth is place — all time th' auspicious hour. 
While heaven leans forth to look, oh, will he quail or cower? 

"Ah! I abhor his protest and complaint! 
His pious looks and patience I despise! 
He can't evade the test, disguised as saint; 
The manly voice of freedom bids him rise. 
And shake himself before Philistine eyes! 
And, like a lion roused, no sooner than 
A foe dare come, play all his energies, 
And court the fray with fury if he can; 
For hell itself respects a fearless, manly man." 



Preface xxxiii 

It may be said that none of these poets strike a deep 
native strain or sound a distinctively original note, either 
in matter or form. That is true ; but the same thing may 
be said of all the American poets down to the writers 
of the present generation, with the exception of Poe and 
Walt Whitman. The thing in which these black poets 
are mostly excelled by their contemporaries is mere tech- 
nique. 

Paul Laurence Dunbar stands out as the first poet from 
the Negro race in the United States to show a combined 
mastery over poetic material and poetic technique, to 
reveal innate literary distinction in what he wrote, and 
to maintain a high level of performance. He was the 
first to rise to a height from which he could take a per- 
spective view of his own race. He was the first to see 
objectively its humor, its superstitions, its shortcomings; 
the first to feel sympathetically its heart-wounds, its 
yearnings, its aspirations, and to voice them all in a purely 
literary form. 

Dunbar's fame rests chiefly on his poems in Negro 
dialect. This appraisal of him is, no doubt, fair; for 
in these dialect poems he not only carried his art to the 
highest point of perfection, but he made a contribution 
to American literature unlike what any one else had 
made, a contribution which, perhaps, no one else could 
have made. Of course, Negro dialect poetry was writ- 
ten before Dunbar wrote, most of it by white writers ; but 
the fact stands out that Dunbar was the first to use it 
as a medium for the true interpretation of Negro char- 
acter and psychology. And, yet, dialect poetry does not 



\y 



xxxiv Preface 

constitute the whole or even the bulk of Dunbar's work. 
In addition to a large number of poems of a very high 
order done in literary English, he was the author of 
four novels and several volumes of short stories. 

Indeed, Dunbar did not begin his career as a writer of 
dialect. I may be pardoned for introducing here a bit 
of reminiscence. My personal friendship with Paul Dun- 
bar began before he had achieved recognition, and con- 
tinued to be close until his death. When I first met him 
he had published a thin volume, "Oak and Ivy," which 
was being sold chiefly through his own efforts. "Oak 
and Ivy" showed no distinctive Negro influence, but 
rather the influence of James Whitcomb Riley. At this 
time Paul and I were together every day for several 
months. He talked to me a great deal about his hopes 
and ambitions. In these talks he revealed that he had 
reached a realization of the possibilities of poetry In the 
dialect, together with a recognition of the fact that it 
ofltered the surest way by which he could get a hearing. 
Often he said to me: "I've got to write dialect poetry; It's 
the only way I can get them to listen to me." I was with 
Dunbar at the beginning of what proved to be his last 
illness. He said to me then: "I have not grown. I am 
writing the same things I wrote ten years ago, and am 
writing them no better." His self-accusation was not 
fully true; he had grown, and he had gained a surer 
control of his art, but he had not accomplished the greater 
things of which he was constantly dreaming; the public 
had held him to the things for which it had accorded 
him recognition. If Dunbar had lived he would have 
achieved some of those dreams, but even while he talked 



Preface xxxv 

so dejectedly to me he seemed to feel that he was not to 
live. He died when he was only thirty-three. 

It has a bearing on this entire subject to note that 
Dunbar was of unmixed Negro blood ; so, as the greatest 
figure in literature which the colored race in the United 
States has produced, he stands as an example at once 
refuting and confounding those who wish to believe that 
whatever extraordinary ability an Aframerican shows is 
due to an admixture of white blood. 

As a man, Dunbar was kind and tender. In conver- 
sation he was brilliant and polished. His voice was his 
chief charm, and was a great element in his success as 
a reader of his own works. In his actions he was im- 
pulsive as a child, sometimes even erratic ; indeed, his inti- 
mate friends almost looked upon him as a spoiled boy. 
He was always delicate in health. Temperamentally, he 
belonged to that class of poets who Taine says are ves- 
sels too weak to contain the spirit of poetry, the poets 
whom poetry kills, the Byrons, the Burns*s, the De 
Mussets, the Poes. 

To whom may he be compared, this boy who scribbled 
his early verses while he ran an elevator, whose youth 
was a battle against poverty, and who, in spite of almost 
insurmountable obstacles, rose to success? A comparison 
between him and Burns is not unfitting. The similarity 
between many phases of their lives is remarkable, and 
their works are not incommensurable. Burns took the 
strong dialect of his people and made it classic; Dunbar 
took the humble speech of his people and in it wrought 
music. 



xxxvi Preface 

Mention of Dunbar brings up for consideration the 
fact that, although he is the most outstanding figure in 
literature among the Aframericans of the United States, 
he does not stand alone among the Aframericans of the 
whole Western world. There are Placido and Manzano 
in Cuba; Vieux and Durand in Haiti, Machado de Assis 
in Brazil; Leon Laviaux in Martinique, and others still 
that might be mentioned, who stand on a plane with or 
even above Dunbar. Placido and Machado de Assis rank 
as great in the literatures of their respective countries 
without any qualifications whatever. They are world 
figures in the literature of the Latin languages. Machado 
de Assis is somewhat handicapped in this respect by hav- 
ing as his tongue and medium the lesser known Portu- 
guese, but Placido, writing in the language of Spain, 
Mexico, Cuba and of almost the whole of South America, 
is universally known. His works have been republished 
in the original in Spain, Mexico and in most of the 
Latin-American countries ; several editions have been pub- 
lished in the United States; translations of his works 
have been made into French and German. 

Placido is in some respects the greatest of all the Cuban 
poets. In sheer genius and the fire of inspiration he sur- 
passes even the more finished Heredia. Then, too, his 
birth, his life and his death ideally contained the tragic 
elements that go into the making of a halo about a poet's 
head. Placido was born in Habana in 1809. The first 
months of his life were passed in a foundling asylum; in- 
deed, his real name, Gabriel de la Concepcion Valdes, 
was in honor of its founder. His father took him out 
of the asylum, but shortly afterwards went to Mexico and 



Preface xxxvii 

died there. His early life was a struggle against pov- 
erty; his youth and manhood was a struggle for Cuban 
independence. His death placed him in the list of Cuban 
martyrs. On the 27th of June, 1844, he was lined up 
against a wall with ten others and shot by order of the 
Spanish authorities on a charge of conspiracy. In his 
short but eventful life he turned out work which bulks 
more than six hundred pages. During the few hours pre- 
ceding his execution he wrote three of his best known 
poems, among them his famous sonnet, "Mother, Fare- 
well!" 

Placido's sonnet to his mother has been translated into 
every important language; William Cullen Bryant did 
it in English; but in spite of its wide popularity, it is, 
perhaps, outside of Cuba the least understood of all 
Placido's poems. It is curious to note how Bryant's trans- 
lation totally misses the intimate sense of the delicate sub- 
tility of the poem. The American poet makes it a tender 
and loving farewell of a son who is about to die to a 
heart-broken mother; but that is not the kind of a fare- 
well that Placido intended to write or did write. 

The key to the poem is in the first word, and the first 
word is the Spanish conjunction Si (if). The central 
idea, then, of the sonnet is, "If the sad fate which now 
overwhelms me should bring a pang to your heart, do 
not weep, for I die a glorious death and sound the last 
note of my lyre to you." Bryant either failed to under- 
stand or ignored the opening word, "If,'* because he was 
not familiar with the poet's history. 

While Placido's father was a Negro, his mother was 
a Spanish white woman, a dancer in one of the Habana 



xxxviii Preface 

theatres. At his birth she abandoned him to a foundh'ng 
asylum, and perhaps never saw him again, although it is 
known that she outlived her son. When the poet came 
down to his last hours he remembered that somewhere 
there lived a woman who w^as his mother; that although 
she had heartlessly abandoned him; that although he 
owed her no filial duty, still she might, perhaps, on hear- 
ing of his sad end feel some pang of grief or sadness; so 
he tells her in his last words that he dies happy and 
bids her not to weep. This he does with nobility and 
dignity, but absolutely without affection. Taking into 
account these facts, and especially their humiliating and 
embittering eifect upon a soul so sensitive as Placido's, 
this sonnet, in spite of the obvious weakness of the sestet 
as compared with the octave, is a remarkable piece of 
work.^ 

In considering the Aframerican poets of the Latin lan- 
guages I am impelled to think that, as up to this time 
the colored poets of greater universality have come out 
of the Latin-American countries rather than out of the 
United States, they will continue to do so for a good 
many years. The reason for this I hinted at in the first 
part of this preface. The colored poet in the United 
States labors within limitations which he cannot easily 
pass over. He is always on the defensive or the offensive. 
The pressure upon him to be propagandic is well nigh 
Irresistible. These conditions are suffocating to breadth 
and to real art in poetry. In addition he labors under 
the handicap of finding culture not entirely colorless in 

1 Placido's sonnet and two English versions will be found in 
the Appendix. 



Preface xxxix 

the United States. On the other hand, the colored poet of 
Latin-America can voice the national spirit without any 
reservations. And he will be rewarded without any res- 
ervations, whether it be to place him among the great or 
declare him the greatest. 

So I think it probable that the first world-acknowledged 
Aframerican poet will come out of Latin-America. Over 
against this probability, of course, is the great advantage 
possessed by the colored poet in the United States of 
writing in the world-conquering English language. 

This preface has gone far beyond what I had in mind 
when I started. It was my intention to gather together 
the best verses I could find by Negro poets and present 
them with a bare word of introduction. It was not my 
plan to make this collection inclusive nor to make the 
book in any sense a book of criticism. I planned to pre- 
sent only verses by contemporary writers; but, perhaps, 
because this is the first collection of its kind, I realized 
the absence of a starting-point and was led to provide one 
and to fill in with historical data what I felt to be a 
gap. 

It may be surprising to many to see how little of the 
poetry being written by Negro poets to-day is being writ- 
ten in Negro dialect. The newer Negro poets show a 
tendency to discard dialect; much of the subject-matter 
which went into the making of traditional dialect poetry, 
'possums, watermelons, etc., they have discarded alto- 
gether, at least, as poetic material. This tendency will, no 
doubt, be regretted by the majority of white readers; 
and, indeed, it would be a distinct loss if the American 



V' 



xl Preface 

Negro poets threw away this quaint and musical folk- 
speech as a medium of expression. And yet, after all, 
these poets are working through a problem not realized 
by the reader, and, perhaps, by many of these poets them- 
selves not realized consciously. They are trying to break 
away from, not Negro dialect itself, but the limitations 
on Negro dialect imposed by the fixing effects of long 
convention. 

The Negro in the United States has achieved or been 
placed in a certain artistic niche. When he is thought 
of artistically. It is as a happy-go-lucky, singing, shuffling, 
banjo-picking being or as a more or less pathetic figure. 
The picture of him Is in a log cabin amid fields of cotton 
or along the levees. Negro dialect is naturally and by 
long association the exact instrument for voicing this 
phase of Negro life; and Jby that very exactness it is an 
instrument with but two full stops, humor and pathos. 
So even when he confines himself to purely racial themes, 
the Aframerican poet realizes that there are phases of 
Negro life in the United States which cannot be treated 
in the dialect either adequately or artistically. Take, 
for example, the phases rising out of life in Harlem, that 
most wonderful Negro city In the world. I do not deny 
that a Negro In a log cabin Is more picturesque than a 
Negro In a Harlem flat, but the Negro In the Harlem 
flat is here, and he is but part of a group growing every- 
where In the country, a group whose ideals are becom- 
ing Increasingly more vital than those of the traditionally 
artistic group, even if its members are less picturesque. 

What the colored poet in the United States needs to 
do is something like what Synge did for the Irish; he needs 



Preface xli 

to find a form that will express the racial spirit by 
symbols from within rather than by symbols from with- 
out, such as the mere mutilation of English spelling 
and pronunciation. He needs a form that is freer and 
larger than dialect, but which will still hold the racial 
flavor; a form expressing the imagery, the idioms, the 
peculiar turns of thought, and the distinctive humor and 
pathos, too, of the Negro, but which will also be capable 
of voicing the deepest and highest emotions and aspira- 
tions, and allow of the widest range of subjects and the 
widest scope of treatment. 

Negro dialect is at present a medium that is not ca- 
pable of giving expression to the varied conditions of 
Negro life in America, and much less is it capable of 
giving the fullest interpretation of Negro character and 
psychology. This is no indictment against the dialect 
as dialect, but against the mould of convention in which 
Negro dialect in the United States has been set. In 
time these conventions may become lost, and the colored 
poet in the United States may sit down to write in dialect 
without feeling that his first line will put the general 
reader in a frame of mind which demands that the poem 
be humorous or pathetic. In the meantime, there is no 
reason why these poets should not continue to do the 
beautiful things that can be done, and done best, in the 
dialect. 

In stating the need for Aframerican poets in the United 
States to work out a new and distinctive form of ex- 
pression I do not wish to be understood to hold any 
theory that they should limit themselves to Negro poetry, 
to racial themes; the sooner they are able to write Ameri- 



xlii Preface 

C'dn poetry spontaneously, the better. Nevertheless, I 
believe that the richest contribution the Negro poet can 
make to the American literature of the future will be the 
fusion into it of his own individual artistic gifts. 

Not many of the writers here included, except Dun- 
bar, are known at all to the general reading public; and 
there is only one of these who has a widely recognized 
position in the American literary world, he is William 
Stanley Braithwaite. Mr. Braithwaite is not only unique 
in this respect, but he stands unique among all the 
Aframerican writers the United States has yet produced. 
He has gained his place, taking as the standard and meas- 
ure for his work the identical standard and measure 
applied to American writers and American literature. 
He has asked for no allowances or rewards, either di- 
rectly or indirectly, on account of his race. 

Mr. Braithwaite is the author of two volumes of 
verses, lyrics of delicate and tenuous beauty. In his more 
recent and uncollected poems he shows himself more and 
more decidedly the mystic. But his place in American 
literature is due more to his work as a critic and 
anthologist than to his work as a poet. There is 
still another role he has pla5^ed, that of friend of poetry 
and poets. It is a recognized fact that in the work 
which preceded the present revival of poetry in the United 
States, no one rendered more unremitting and valuable 
service than Mr. Braithwaite. And it can be said that 
no future study of American poetry of this age can be 
made without reference to Braithwaite. 

Two authors included in the book are better known 



Preface xliii 

for their work in prose than in poetry : W. E. B. Du Bois 
whose well-known prose at its best is, however, impas- 
sioned and rhythmical; and Benjamin Brawley who is 
the author, among other works, of one of the best hand- 
books on the English drama that has yet appeared in 
America. 

But the group of*the new Negro poets, whose work 
makes up the bulk of this anthology, contains names 
destined to be known. Claude McKay, although still 
quite a young man, has already demonstrated his power, 
breadth and skill as a poet. Mr. McKay's breadth 
is as essential a part of his equipment as his power and 
skill. He demonstrates mastery of the three when as a 
Negro poet he pours out the bitterness and rebellion in 
his heart in those two sonnet-tragedies, "If We Must 
Die" and *'To the White Fiends," in a manner that 
strikes terror; and when as a cosmic poet he creates the 
atmosphere and mood of poetic beauty in the absolute, 
as he does in "Spring in New Hampshire" and "The 
Harlem Dancer." Mr. McKay gives evidence that he 
has passed beyond the danger which threatens many of 
the new Negro poets — the danger of allowing the purely 
polemical phases of the race problem to choke their sense 
of artistry. 

Mr. McKay's earliest work is unknown in this coun- 
try. It consists of poems written and published in his 
native Jamaica. I was fortunate enough to run across 
this first volume, and I could not refrain from repro- 
ducing here one of the poems written in the West 
Indian Negro dialect. I have done this not only to 
illustrate the widest range of the poet's talent and to 



xliv Preface 

offer a comparison between the American and the West 
Indian dialects, but on account of the intrinsic worth 
of the poem itself. I was much tempted to introduce 
several more, in spite of the fact that they might require 
a glossary, because however greater work Mr. McKay 
may do he can never do anything more touching and 
charming than these poems in the Jamaica dialect. 

Fenton Johnson is a young poet of the ultra-modern 
school who gives promise of greater work than he has 
yet done. Jessie Fauset shows that she possesses the 
lyric gift, and she works with care and finish. Miss 
Fauset is especially adept in her translations from the 
French. Georgia Douglas Johnson is a poet neither 
afraid nor ashamed of her emotions. She limits herself 
to the purely conventional forms, rhythms and rhymes, but 
through them she achieves striking effects. The principal 
theme of Mrs. Johnson's poems is the secret dread down 
in every woman's heart, the dread of the passing of youth 
and beauty, and with them love. An old theme, one 
which poets themselves have often wearied of, but which, 
like death, remains one of the imperishable themes on 
which is made the poetry that has moved men's hearts 
through all ages. In her ingenuously wrought verses, 
through sheer simplicity and spontaneousness, Mrs. John- 
son often sounds a note of pathos or passion that will not 
fail to waken a response, except in those too sophisticated 
or cynical to respond to natural impulses. Of the half 
dozen or so of colored women writing creditable verse, 
Anne Spencer is the most modern and least obvious in 
her methods. Her lines are at times involved and turgid 
and almost cryptic, but she shows an originality which 



Preface xlv 

does not depend upon eccentricities. In her "Before the 
Feast of Shushan" she displays an opulence, the love of 
which has long been charged against the Negro as one 
of his naive and childish traits, but which in art may 
infuse a much needed color, warmth and spirit of abandon 
into American poetry. 

John W. Holloway, more than any Negro poet writ- 
ing in the dialect to-day, summons to his work the lilt, 
the spontaneity and charm of which Dunbar was the 
supreme master whenever he employed that medium. It 
is well to say a word here about the dialect poems of 
James Edwin Campbell. In dialect, Campbell was a 
precursor of Dunbar. A comparison of his idioms and 
phonetics with those of Dunbar reveals great differences. 
Dunbar is a shade or two more sophisticated and his 
phonetics approach nearer to a mean standard of the 
dialects spoken in the different sections. Campbell is 
more primitive and his phonetics are those of the dialect 
as spoken by the Negroes of the sea islands off the coasts 
of South Carolina and Georgia, which to this day remains 
comparatively close to its African roots, and is strikingly 
similar to the speech of the uneducated Negroes of the 
West Indies. An error that confuses many persons in 
reading or understanding Negro dialect is the idea that 
it is uniform. An ignorant Negro of the uplands of 
Georgia would have almost as much difficulty in under- 
standing an ignorant sea island Negro as an Englishman 
would have. Not even in the dialect of any particular 
section is a given word always pronounced in precisely 
the same way. Its pronunciation depends upon the pre- 
ceding and following sounds. Sometimes the combina- 



xlvl Preface 

tion permits of a liaison so close that to the uninitiated 
the sound of the word is almost completely lost. 

The constant effort in Negro dialect is to elide all 
troublesome consonants and sounds. This negative effort 
may be after all only positive laziness of the vocal organs, 
but the result is a softening and smoothing which makes 
Negro dialect so delightfully easy for singers. 

Daniel Webster Davis wrote dialect poetry at the 
time when Dunbar was writing. He gained great popu- 
larity, but it did not spread beyond his own race. Davis 
had unctuous humor, but he was crude. For illustra- 
tion, note the vast stretch between his "Hog Meat" and 
Dunbar's "When de Co'n Pone's Hot," both of them 
poems on the traditional ecstasy of the Negro in con- 
templation of "good things" to eat. 

It is regrettable that two of the most gifted writers 
included were cut off so early in life. R. C. Jamison 
and Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., died several years ago, both of 
them in their youth. Jamison was barely thirty at the 
time of his death, but among his poems there is one, at 
least, which stamps him as a poet of superior talent and 
lofty inspiration. "The Negro Soldiers" is a poem with 
the race problem as its theme, yet it transcends the limits 
of race and rises to a spiritual height that makes it one 
of the noblest poems of the Great War. Cotter died a 
mere boy of twenty, and the latter part of that brief 
period he passed in an Invalid state. Some months before 
his death he published a thin volume of verses which 
were for the most part written on a sick bed. In this 
little volume Cotter showed fine poetic sense and a free 
and bold mastery over his material. A reading of Cot- 



Preface xlvii 

ter's poems is certain to induce that mood in which one 
will regretfully speculate on what the young poet might 
have accomplished had he not been cut off so soon. 

As intimated above, my original idea for this book 
underwent a change in the writing of the introduction. 
I first planned to select twenty-five to thirty poems which 
I judged to be up to a certain standard, and offer them 
with a few words of introduction and without comment. 
In the collection, as it grew to be, that "certain standard" 
has been broadened if not lowered ; but I believe that 
this is offset by the advantage of the wider range given 
the reader and the student of the subject. 

I offer this collection without making apology or asking 
allowance. I feel confident that the reader will find not 
only an earnest for the future, but actual achievement. 
The reader cannot but be impressed by the distance al- 
ready covered. It is a long way from the plaints of 
George Horton to the invectives of Claude McKay, from 
the obviousness of/Frances Harper to the complexness of 
Anne Spencer, "^uch ground has been covered, but more 
will yet be covered. It is this side of prophecy to declare 
that the undeniable creative genius of the Negro is des- 
tined to make a distinctive and valuable contribution to 
American poetry. 

I wish to extend my thanks to Mr. Arthur A. Schom- 
burg, who placed his valuable collection of books by 
Negro authors at my disposal. I wish also to acknowledge 
with thanks the kindness of Dodd, Mead & Co. for per- 
mitting the reprint of poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar; 



xlviii Preface 

of the Cornhill Publishing Company for permission to 
reprint poems of Georgia Douglas Johnson, Joseph S. 
Cotter, Jr., Bertram Johnson and Waverley Carmichael; 
and of Neale & Co. for permission to reprint poems of 
John W. Holloway. I wish to thank Mr. Braithwaite 
for permission to use the included poems from his forth- 
coming volume, "Sandy Star and Willie Gee." And to 
acknowledge the courtesy of the following magazines: 
The Crisis, The Century Magazine, The Liberator, The 
Freeman, The Independent, Others, and Poetry: A 
Magazine of Verse. 

James Weldon Johnson. 
New York City, 1921. 



The Book of 
American Negro Poetry 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 

A NEGRO LOVE SONG^ 

Seen my lady home las' night, 

Jump back, honey, jump back. 
Her huh han' an' sque'z it tight, 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh. 
Seen a light gleam f om huh eye, 
An' a smile go flittin' by — 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine, 

Jump back, honey, jump back. 
Mockin'-bird was singin' fine. 

Jump back, honey, jump back. 
An' my hea't was beatin' so. 
When I reached my lady's do', 
Dat I could n't ba' to go — 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais', 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 

Raised huh lips an' took a tase, 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 

1 Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company. 

3 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Love me, honey, love me true? 
Love me well ez I love you? 
An' she answe'd, "Cose I do" — 
Jump back, honey, jump back. 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 



LITTLE BROWN BABY 

Little brown baby wif spa'klln' eyes, 

Come to yo* pappy an' set on his knee. 
What you been doin', suh — makin' san' pies? 

Look at dat bib — You*s ez du'ty ez me. 
Look at dat mouf — dat's merlasses, I bet; 

Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his ban's. 
Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, 

Bein' so sticky an' sweet — goodness lan's! 

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes 

Who's pappy 's darlin' an' who's pappy 's chile? 
Who is it all de day nevah once tries 

Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile ? 
Whah did you git dem teef ? My, you's a scamp ! 

Whah did dat dimple come f 'om in yo' chin ? 
Pappy do' know you — I b'lieves you's a tramp ; 

Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in ! 

Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san', 

We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; 
Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man ; 

I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. 
Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', 

Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. 
Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', 

Swaller him down fom his haid to his feet! 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close. 

Go back, oV buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. 
He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se ; 

He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy. 
Come to you' pallet now — go to you' res' ; 

Wisht you could alius know ease an' cleah skies ; 
Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas' — 

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes! 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 



SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT 

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; 

I look far out into the pregnant night, 
Where I can hear a solemn booming gun 

And catch the gleaming of a random light, 
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing. 

My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing; 

For I would hail and check that ship of ships. 
I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud. 

My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips. 
And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing. 

O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, 

O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! 

Is there no hope for me? Is there no way 

That I may sight and check that speeding bark 

Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing? 



8 Paul Laurence Dunbar 



LOVER'S LANE 

Summah night an' sighin' breeze, 

'Long de lovah's lane; 
Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, 

*Long de lovah's lane. 
White folks' wo'k all done up gran'- 
Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' 
Struttin' lak we owned de Ian*, 

'Long de lovah's lane. 

Owl a-settin' 'side de road, 

'Long de lovah's lane, 
Lookin' at us lak he knowed 

Dis uz lovah's lane. 
Go on, hoot yo' Mou'nful tune, 
You ain' nevah loved in June, 
An' come hidin' f om de moon 

Down in lovah's lane. 

Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, 

Down in lovah's lane, 
Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say 

'Long de lovah's lane. 
But I whispahs low lak dis. 
An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss — 
Mistah Bush he shek his fis', 

Down in lovah's lane. 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 

Whut I keer ef day is long, 

Down in lovah's lane. 
I kin alius sing a song 

*Long de lovah's lane. 
An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say 
Meks up fu' de weary day 
Wen I's strollin' by de way, 
Down in lovah's lane. 

An* dis t'ought will alius rise 

Down in lovah's lane ; 
Wondah whethah in de skies 

Dey's a lovah's lane. 
Ef dey ain't, I tell you true, 
'Ligion do look mighty blue, 
'Cause I do' know whut I'd do 
'Dout a lovah's lane. 



lO Paul Laurence Dunbar 



THE DEBT 

This is the debt I pay- 
Just for one riotous day, 
Years of regret and grief, 
Sorrow without relief. 

Pay it I will to the end — 
Until the grave, my friend, 
Gives me a true release — 
Gives me the clasp of peace. 

Slight was the thing I bought, 
Small was the debt I thought. 
Poor was the loan at best — 
God! but the interest! 



Paul Laurence Dunbar n 



THE HAUNTED OAK 

Pray why are you so bare, so bare, 

Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; 
And why, when I go through the shade you throw, 

Runs a shudder over me? 

My leaves were green as the best, I trow, 

And sap ran free in my veins. 
But I saw In the moonlight dim and weird 

A guiltless victim's pains. 

I bent me down to hear his sigh ; 

I shook with his gurgling moan, 
And I trembled sore when they rode away, 

And left him here alone. 

They'd charged him with the old, old crime, 

And set him fast in jail : 
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long. 

And why does the night wind wail? 

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, 

And he raised his hand to the sky; 
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, 

And the steady tread drew nigh. 

Who is it rides by night, by night, 

Over the moonlit road? 
And what is the spur that keeps the pace, 

What is the galling goad? 



12 Paul Laurence Dunbar 

And now they beat at the prison door, 

"Ho, keeper, do not stay! 
We are friends of him whom you hold within, 

And we fain would take him away 

"From those who ride fast on our heels 

With mind to do him wrong; 
They have no care for his innocence, 

And the rope they bear is long." 

They have fooled the jailer with lying words, 
They have fooled the man with lies ; 

The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn. 
And the great door open flies. 

Now they have taken him from the jail, 

And hard and fast they ride. 
And the leader laughs low down in his throat, 

As they halt my trunk beside. 

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black. 

And the doctor one of white, 
And the minister, with his oldest son, 

Was curiously bedight. 

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? 

'Tis but a little space. 
And the time will come when these shall dread 

The mem'ry of your face. 

I feel the rope against my bark. 

And the weight of him in my grain, 

I feel in the throe of his final woe 
The touch of my own last pain. 



Paul Laurence Dunbar 13 

And never more shall leaves come forth 

On a bough that bears the ban ; 
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, 

From the curse of a guiltless man. 

And ever the judge rides by, rides by, 

And goes to hunt the deer, 
And ever another rides his soul 

In the guise of a mortal fear. 

And ever the man he rides me hard, 

And never a night stays he; 
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough 

On the trunk of a haunted tree. 



14 Paul Laurence Dunbar 



WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT 

Dey is times in life when Nature 

Seems to slip a cog an' go, 
Jes' a-rattlin' down creation, 

Lak an ocean's overflow; 
When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin* 

Lak a picaninny's top, 
An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin' 

'Twell it seems about to slop, 
An' you feel jes' lak a racah, 

Dat is trainln' fu' to trot — 
When yo' mammy says de blessin* 

An' de co'n pone's hot. 

When you set down at de table, 

Kin' o* weary lak an' sad, 
An' you'se jes' a little tiahed 

An' purhaps a little mad ; 
How yo' gloom tu'ns Into gladness. 

How yo' joy drives out de doubt 
When de oven do' is opened. 

An' de smell comes po'in' out; 
Why, de 'lectrlc light o' Heaven 

Seems to settle on de spot, 
When yo' mammy says de blessin' 

An' de co'n pone's hot. 

When de cabbage pot is steamin* 
An' de bacon good an' fat. 



Paul Laurence Dunbar t^ 

When de chittlins is a-sputter'n' 

So's to show you whah dey's at; 
Tek away yo' sody biscuit, 

Tek away yo' cake an' pie, 
Fu' de glory time is comin', 

An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh, 
An' you want to jump an' hollah, 

Dough you know you'd bettah not, 
When yo' mammy says de blessin' 

An' de co'n pone's hot. 

I have hyeahd o' lots o' sermons, 

An' I've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers, 
An' I've listened to some singin' 

Dat has tuck me up de stairs 
Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me 

Jes' below de Mastah's th'one, 
An' have lef my hea't a-singin' 

In a happy aftah tone; 
But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured 

Seem to tech de softes' spot, 
When my mammy says de blessin', 

An' de co'n pone's hot. 



l6 Paul Laurence Dunbar 



A DEATH SONG 

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, 
Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass 

An' w'en I's a-layin' low, 

I kin hyeah it as it go 
Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." 

Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool. 
An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool, 

Whah de little birds in spring, 

Ust to come an' drink an' sing, 
An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. 

Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load 
Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; 

Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' 

Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' 
If I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's alius knowed. 



James Edwin Campbell 

NEGRO SERENADE 

O, de light-bugs glimmer down de lane, 

Merlindy! Merlindy! 
O, de whip'-will callin' notes ur pain — 

Merlindy, O, Merlindy! 
O, honey lub, my turkle dub, 

Doan* you hyuh my bawnjer ringin*, 
While de night-dew falls an' de ho'n owl calls 

By de oV ba'n gate Ise singin'. 

O, Miss 'Lindy, doan' you hyuh me, chil', 

Merlindy ! Merlindy ! 
My lub fur you des dribe me wil' — 

Merlindy, O, Merlindy! 
I'll sing dis night twel broad day-light, 

Ur bu's' my froat wid tryin', 
'Less you come down, Miss 'Lindy Brown, 

An' stops dis ha't f'um sighin'l 



17 



1 8 James Edwin Campbell 



DE CUNJAH MAN 

O chillen, run, de Cunjah man, 
Him mouf ez beeg ez fryin' pan, 
Him yurs am small, him eyes am raid, 
Him hab no toof een him ol' haid, 
Him hab him roots, him wu'k him trick, 
Him roll him eye, him mek you sick — 
De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, 
O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! 

Him hab ur ball ob raid, raid ha'r, 
Him hide it un' de kitchen sta'r. 
Mam Jude huh pars urlong dat way, 
An' now huh hab ur snaik, de say. 
Him wrop ur roun' huh buddy tight. 
Huh eyes pop out, ur orful sight — 
De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, 
O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! 

Miss Jane, huh dribe him f um huh do*, 
An* now huh hens woan* lay no mo' ; 
De Jussey cow huh done fall sick. 
Hit all done by de Cunjah trick. 
Him put ur root un' 'Lijah's baid. 
An' now de man he sho' am daid — 
De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, 
O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! 



James Edwin Campbell 19 

Me see him stan' de yudder night 
Right een de road een white moon-light; 
Him toss him arms, him whirl him 'roun', 
Him stomp him foot urpon de groun' ; 
De snaiks come crawlin', one by one, 
Me hyuh um hiss, me break an' run — 

De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, 

O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! 



20 James Edwin Campbell 



UNCLE EPH'S BANJO SONG 

Clean de ba'n an' sweep de flo', 

Sing, my bawnjer, sing! 
We's gwine ter dawnce dis eb'nin' sho', 

Ring, my bawnjer, ring! 
Den hits up de road an* down de lane, 
Hurry, niggah, you miss de train; 
De yaller gal she dawnce so neat, 
De yaller gal she look so sweet, 

Ring, my bawnjer, ring! 

De moon come up, de sun go down. 

Sing, my bawnjer, sing! 
De niggahs am all come f 'um town. 

Ring, my bawnjer, ring! 
Den hits roun' de hill an' froo de fiel' — 
Lookout dar, niggah, doan' you steal! 
De milyuns on dem vines am green, 
De moon am bright, O you'll be seen, 

Ring, my bawnjer, ring! 



James Edwin Campbell 21 



OL' DOC HYAR 

Ur oF Hyar lib in ur house on de hill, 

He hunner yurs ol' an' nebber wuz ill ; 

He yurs dee so long an' he eyes so beeg, 

An' he laigs so spry dat he dawnce ur jeeg; 

He lib so long dat he know ebbry tings 

'Bout de beas'ses dat walks an' de bu'ds dat sings — 

Dis or Doc' Hyar, 
Whar lib up dar 

Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. 

He doctah fur all de beas*ses an' bu'ds — 

He put on he specs an' he use beeg wu'ds. 

He feel dee pu's' den he look mighty wise. 

He pull out he watch an' he shet bof e eyes ; 

He grab up he hat an' grab up he cane, 

Den — "blam!" go de do' — he gone lak de train, 

Dis or Doc' Hyar, 
Whar lib up dar 

Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. 

Mistah Ba'r fall sick — dee sont fur Doc' Hyar, 

"O, Doctah, come queeck, an' see Mr. B'ar; 

He mighty nigh daid des sho' ez you b'on !" 

"Too much ur young peeg, too much ur green co'n," 

Ez he put on he hat, said Ol' Doc' Hyar ; 

"I'll tek 'long meh lawnce, an' lawnce Mistah B'ar," 

Said or Doc' Hyar, 
Whar lib up dar 

Een ur mighty fine house on ur miehtv hieh hill. 



22 James Edwin Campbell 

Mistah B'ar he groaned, Mistah B'ar he growled, 

Wile de ol' Miss B'ar an' de chillen howled; 

Doctah Hyar tuk out he sha'p li'l lawnce, 

An' pyu'ced Mistah B'ar twel he med him prawnce 

Den grab up he hat an' grab up he cane 

"Blam !" go de do' an' he gone lak de train, 

Dis or Doc' Hyar, 
Whar lib up dar 
Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. 

But de vay naix day Mistah B'ar he daid ; 

Wen dee tell Doc' Hyar, he des scratch he haid : 

*'Ef pahsons git well ur pahsons git wu's, 

Money got ter come een de Ol' Hyar's pu's ; 

Not wut folkses does, but fur wut dee know 

Does de folkses git paid" — an' Hyar larfed low, 

Dis sma't Ol' Hyar, 
Whar lib up dar 

Een de mighty fine house on de mighty high hill ! 



James Edwin Campbell 23 



WHEN OL' SIS' JUDY PRAY 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray, 

De teahs come stealin' down my cheek, 

De voice ur God widin me speak' ; 

I see myse'f so po' an' weak, 

Down on my knees de cross I seek, 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray, 

De thun'ers ur Mount Sin-a-I 

Comes rushin' down f um up on high — 

De Debbil tu'n his back an' fly 

While sinnahs loud fur pa'don cry. 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray, 
Ha'd sinnahs trimble in dey seat 
Ter hyuh huh voice in sorro 'peat : 
(While all de chu'ch des sob an' weep) 
"O Shepa'd, dese, dy po' los' sheep!" 
When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray, 
De whole house hit des rock an' moan 
Ter see huh teahs an' hyuh huh groan ; 
Dar's somepin' in Sis' Judy's tone 
Dat melt all ha'ts dough med ur stone 
When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 



24 James Edwin Campbell 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray, 
Salvation's light comes pourin' down — 
Hit fill de chu'ch an' all de town — 
Why, angels' robes go rustlln' 'roun', 
An' hebben on de Yurf am foun', 
When oF Sis' Judy pray. 

When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 
My soul go sweepin' up on wings, 
An' loud de chu'ch wid "Glory!" rings, 
An' wide de gates ur Jahsper swings 
Twel you hyuh ha'ps wid golding strings, 
When ol' Sis' Judy pray. 



James Edwin Campbell 25 



COMPENSATION 

O, rich young lord, thou ridest by 
With looks of high disdain ; 
It chafes me not thy title high, 
Thy blood of oldest strain. 
The lady riding at thy side 
Is but in name thy promised bride, 
Ride on, young lord, ride on! 

Her father wills and she obeys, 
The custom of her class ; 
*Tis Land not Love the trothing sways — 
For Land he sells his lass. 
Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine. 
Her soul, proud fool, her soul is mine, 
Ride on, young lord, ride on ! 

No title high my father bore ; 
The tenant of thy farm. 
He left me what I value more: 
Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm 
And love for bird and beast and bee 
And song of lark and hymn of sea. 
Ride on, young lord, ride on ! 

The boundless sky to me belongs, 
The paltry acres thine ; 



26 James Edwin Campbell 

The painted beauty sings thy songs, 
The lavrock lilts me mine ; 
The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee, 
The gorse and heather bloom for me. 
Ride on, young lord, ride on ! 



James D. Corrothers 

AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE 

To be a Negro in a day like this 

Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow, 
Betrayed, like him whose woe dimmed eyes gave bliss 

Still must one succor those who brought one low, 
To be a Negro in a day like this. 

To be a Negro in a day like this 

Demands rare patience — patience that can wait 
In utter darkness. 'Tis the path to miss. 

And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate. 
To be a Negro in a day like this. 

To be a Negro in a day like this 

Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag 

Which is to us white freedom's emphasis. 

Ah ! one must love when Truth and Justice lag, 

To be a Negro in a day like this. 

To be a Negro in a day like this — 

Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done? 

Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst, 
But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon, 

"Merely a Negro" — in a day like this! 

27 



28 James D. Corrothers 



PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR 

He came, a youth, singing in the dawn 
Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre, 
Refining, as with great Apollo's fire. 
His people's gift of song. And thereupon, 

This Negro singer, come to Helicon 

Constrained the masters, listening to admire. 
And roused a race to wonder and aspire. 
Gazing which way their honest voice was gone, 

With ebon face uplit of glory's crest. 

Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, 
Who brought the cabin's mirth, the tuneful night, 

But faced the morning, beautiful with light. 
To die while shadows yet fell toward the west, 
And leave his laurels at his people's feet. 

Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now ; 
None rises, singing, from your race like you. 
Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew 
Fell early on the bays upon your brow, 

And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow 
And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you threw 
Flowerets of love. Or, if an envious few 
Of your own people brought no garlands, how 

Could Malice smite him whom the gods had crowned ? 
If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low 
Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned ; 

A wide world heard you, and it loved you so 
It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, 
And o'er your happy songs its plaudits rang. 



James D. Corrothers 29 



THE NEGRO SINGER 

O'er all my song the image of a face 

Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers. 
The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers; 
The golden lyre's delights bring little grace 

To bless the singer of a lowly race. 

Long hath this mocked me : aye in marvelous hours, 
When Hera's gardens gleamed, or Cynthia's bowers, 
Or Hope's red pylons, in their far, hushed place! 

But I shall dig me deeper to the gold ; 
Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles. 
From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles 

Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold. 
So shall men know me, and remember long, 
Nor my dark face dishonor any song. 



30 James D. Corrothers 



THE ROAD TO THE BOW 

Ever and ever anon, 

After the black storm, the eternal, beauteous bow ! 
Brother, to rosy-painted mists that arch beyond, 

Blithely I go. 

My brows men laureled and my lyre 

Twined with immortal ivy for one little rippling song; 
My "House of Golden Leaves" they praised and "passion- 
ate fire" — 

But, Friend, the way is long! 

Onward and onward, up! away! 

Though Fear flaunt all his banners in my face, 
And my feet stumble, lo ! the Orphean Day ! 

Forward by God's grace! 

These signs are still before me : "Fear," 

"Danger," "Unprecedented," and I hear black "No" 
Still thundering, and "Churl." Good Friend, I rest me 
here — 

Then to the glittering bow! 

Loometh and cometh Hate in wrath. 

Mailed Wrong, swart Servitude and Shame with bitter 
rue, 
Nathless a Negro poet's feet must tread the path 

The winged god knew. 



James D, Corrothers 31 

Thus, my true Brother, dream-led, I 

Forefend the anathema, following the span. 

I hold my head as proudly high 
As any man. 



32 James D. Corrothers 



IN THE MATTER OF TWO MEN 

One does such work as one will not, 

And well each knows the right; 
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot, 

The black must serve the white. 
And it's, oh, for the white man's softening flesh, 

While the black man's muscles grow ! 
Well I know which grows the mightier, 

/ know ; full well I know. 

The white man seeks the soft, fat place, 

And he moves and he works by rule. 
Ingenious grows the humbler race 

In Oppression's prodding school. 
And it's, oh, for a white man gone to seed, 

While the Negro struggles so ! 
And I know which race develops most, 

I know; yes, well I know. 

The white man rides in a palace car. 

And the Negro rides "Jim Crow.'* 
To damn the other with bolt and bar, 

One creepeth so low ; so low ! 
And it's, oh, for a master's nose in the mire, 

While the humbled hearts o'erflow! 
Well I know whose soul grows big at this, 

And whose grows small; / know! 



James D. Corrothers 33 

The white man leases out his land, 

And the Negro tills the same. 
One works; one loafs and takes command; 

But I know who wins the game! 
And it's, oh, for the white man's shrinking soil, 

As the black's rich acres grow! 
Well I know how the signs point out at last, 

I know; ah, well I know! 

The white man votes for his color's sake, 

While the black, for his is barred ; 
(Though "ignorance" is the charge they make), 

But the black man studies hard. 
And it's, oh, for the white man's sad neglect. 

For the power of his light let go! 
So, I know which man must win at last, 

I know! Ah, Friend, I know! 



34 James D. Corrothers 



AN INDIGNATION DINNER 

Dey was hard times jes fo' Christmas round our neigh- 
borhood one year; 

So we held a secret meetin', whah de white folks couldn't 
hear, 

To 'scuss de situation, an' to see what could be done 

Towa'd a fust-class Christmas dinneh an' a little Christ- 
mas fun. 

Rufus Green, who called de meetin', ris an' said: "In dis 

here town, 
An' throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin' to keep 

us down." 
S' 'e: "Dey's bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey 'buse us 

'ca'se we's free; 
But when dey tetch my stomach, dey's done gone too fur 

fob me! 

"Is I right?" "You sho is, Rufus!" roared a dozen hun- 
gry throats. 

"Ef you'd keep a mule a-wo'kin', don't you tamper wid his 
oats. 

Dat's sense," continued Rufus. "But dese white folks 
nowadays 

Has done got so close and stingy you can't live on what 
dey pays. 

"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 

'nough to choke. 
Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's 'mos* 

completely broke? 



James D. Corrothers 35 

I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a glass o' water. 

Mad? 
Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese 

white folks had!" 

Well, dey 'bused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy 

Simmons ris, 
Leanin' on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheu- 

matis', 
An' s' 'e: "Chilun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin' 

th'ough de street 
'Bout yo' wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we 

mus' eat. 

"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's 

fahm. 
He's a-growin' fat an' sassy, an' a-struttin' to a chahm. 
Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters — all de craps is 

fine dis year; 
All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here." 

Well, we lit right m an' voted dat it was a gran idee. 
An' de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin* 

miles to see; 
An' we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small, 
Not beca'se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's 

all. 



36 James D. Corrothers 



DREAM AND THE SONG 

So oft our hearts, beloved lute, 

In blossomy haunts of song are mute; 

So long we pore, 'mid murmurings dull, 

O'er loveliness unutterable. 

So vain is all our passion strong! 

The dream is lovelier than the song. 

The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn 

Wan ashes. Still, from memory's urn, 

The lingering blossoms tenderly 

Refute our wilding minstrelsy. 

Alas! we work but beauty's wrong! 

The dream is lovelier than the song. 

Yearned Shelley o'er the golden flame? 
Left Keats for beauty's lure, a name 
But "writ in water"? Woe is me! 
To grieve o'er flowerful faery. 
My Phasian doves are flown so long — 
The dream is lovelier than the song! 

Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, 

The golden-winged bird is gone, 

And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves, 

Only the swallow-twittering eaves. 

What art may house or gold prolong 

A dream far lovelier than a song? 



James D. Corrothers 37 

The lilting witchery, the unrest 

Of winged dreams, is in our breast; 

But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes 

Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, 

My lute, must to the gods belong. 

The dream is lovelier than the song. 



Daniel Webster Davis 

WEH DOWN SOUF 

O, de birds ar' sweetly singin', 

'Weh down Souf, 
An' de banjer Is a-ringin', 

'Weh down Souf; 
An' my heart it is a-sighin', 
Whir de moments am a-flyin*, 
Fur my horn' I am a-cryin', 

'Weh down Souf. 

Dar de pickaninnies 's playin*, 

'Weh down Souf, 
An' fur dem I am a-prayin*, 

'Weh down Souf; 
An' when I gits sum munny, 
Yo' kin bet I'm goln', my hunny, 
Fur de Ian' dat am so sunny, 

'Weh down Souf. 

Whir de win' up here's a-blowin', 

'Weh down Souf 
De corn is sweetly growin', 

'Weh down Souf. 
Dey tells me here ub freedum, 
But I ain't a-gwine to heed um, 
But I'se gwlne fur to lebe um, 

Fur 'weh down Souf. 
39 



40 Daniel Webster Davis 

I bin up here a-wuckin', 

From \veh down Souf, 
An* I ain't a bin a-shurkin' — 

I'm frum 'weh down Souf; 
But I'm gittin' mighty werry, 
An' de days a-gittin' drerry, 
An' I'm hongry, O, so berry, 
Fur my hom' down Souf. 

O, de moon dar shines de brighter, 

'Weh down Souf, 
An* I know my heart is lighter, 

'Weh down Souf; 
An' de berry thought brings pledjur, 
I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur, 
Fur dar I hab my tredjur, 

'Weh down Souf. 



Daniel Webster Davis 41 



HOG MEAT 

Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam', 
An' de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel'ry an' wid jam; 
Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fine — 
But you' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de 
time. 

When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar*, 
I den begin rejoicin' — hog-killin' time is near; 
An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, 
Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans. 

We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun — 
We don't like city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' done — 
'Dough mutton chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits 

fine, 
To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine. 

Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me 

pleased. 
Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head 

cheese ; 
An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house, 
Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun "souse." 

I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares — 
Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' 
fair; 



42 Daniel Webster Davis 

But I forgib my in'mlz, my heart is free frum hate, 
When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins 
on my plate. 

'Dough 'possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan, 
But put 'longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan*; 
Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur mine 
-Sum-souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine. 



William H. A. Moore 

DUSK SONG 

The garden is very quiet to-night, 
The dusk has gone with the Evening Star, 
And out on the bay a lone ship light 
Makes a silver pathway over the bar 
Where the sea sings low. 

I follow the light with an earnest eye, 
Creeping along to the thick far-away, 
Until it fell in the depths of the deep, dark sky 
With the haunting dream of the dusk of day 
And its lovely glow. 

Long nights, long nights and the whisperings of new ones, 

Flame the line of the pathway down to the sea 

With the halo of new dreams and the hallow of old ones, 

And they bring magic light to my love reverie 

And a lover's regret. 

Tender sorrow for loss of a soft murmured word, 
Tender measure of doubt in a faint, aching heart, 
Tender listening for wind-songs in the tree heights heard 
When you and I were of the dusks a part, 
Are with me yet. 

43 



44 William H. A, Moore 

I pray for faith to the noble spirit of Space, 
I sound the cosmic depths for the measure of glory 
Which will bring to this earth the imperishable race 
Of whom Beauty dreamed in the soul-toned story 
The Prophets told. 

Silence and love and deep wonder of stars 
Dust-silver the heavens from west to east, 
From south to north, and in a maze of bars 
Invisible I wander far from the feast 
As night grows old. 

Half blind is my vision I know to the truth, 
My ears are half deaf to the voice of the tear 
That touches the silences as Autumn's ruth 
Steals thru the dusks of each returning year 
A goodly friend. 

The Autumn, then Winter and wintertime's grief! 
But the weight of the snow is the glistening gift 
Which loving brings to the rose and its leaf, 
For the days of the roses glow in the drift 
And never end. 



The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she. 
The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears, 
And the wounds of worn passions she brings to me 
With all the tremor of the far-off years 
And their mad wrong. 



William H. A, Moore 45 

Yet the garden is very quiet to-night, 
The dusk has long gone with the Evening Star, 
And out on the bay the moon's wan light 
Lays a silver pathway beyond the bar, 
Dear heart, pale and long. 



46 William H. A. Moore 



IT WAS NOT FATE 

It was not fate which overtook me, 

Rather a wayward, wilful wind 

That blew hot for awhile 

And then, as the even shadows came, blew cold. 

What pity it is that a man grown old in life's dreaming 

Should stop, e'en for a moment, to look into a woman's 

eyes. 
And I forgot! 
Forgot that one's heart must be steeled against the east 

wind. 
Life and death alike come out of the East: 
Life as tender as young grass, 
Death as dreadful as the sight of clotted blood. 
I shall go back into the darkness, 
Not to dream but to seek the light again. 
I shall go by paths, mayhap. 
On roads that wind around the foothills 
Where the plains are bare and wild 
And the passers-by come few and far between. 
I want the night to be long, the moon blind, 
The hills thick with moving memories. 
And my heart beating a breathless requiem 
For all the dead days I have lived. 
When the Dawn comes — Dawn, deathless, dreaming — 
I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate, 
I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my 

heart, 



JVilliam H. A. Moore 47 

I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know 
shelter, comfort, beauty. 

And then may I look into a woman's eyes 

And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth un- 
derstanding. 



W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 

A LITANY OF ATLANTA 

Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906 

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mys- 
tery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful days — 
Hear us, good Lord! 

Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt 
are made a mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted 
hands we front Thy heaven, O God, crying: 
We beseech Thee to hear uSj good Lord! 

We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but 
weak and human men. When our devils do deviltry, 
curse Thou the doer and the deed : curse them as we curse 
them, do to them all and more than ever they have done 
to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home. 
Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners! 

And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these 
devils? Who nursed them in crime and fed them on in- 
justice? Who ravished and debauched their mothers and 
their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, 
and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity? 
Thou knowestj good God! 

49 



50 W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 

Is this Thy justice, O Father, that guile be easier than 
innocence, and the innocent crucified for the guilt of the 
untouched guilty? 

Justice J O judge of men! 

Wherefore do we pray ? Is not the God of the fathers 
dead? Have not seers seen in Heaven's halls Thine 
hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and roll- 
ing smoke of sin, v^^here all along bow bitter forms of 
endless dead? 

Awake, Thou that sleepest! 

Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless 
light, thru blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do 
swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and 
free — far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste 
prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! 

Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin! 

From lust of body and lust of blood 
Great God, deliver us! 

From lust of power and lust of gold, 
Great God, deliver us! 

From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, 
Great God, deliver us! 

A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her 
loins sprang twin Murder and Black Hate. Red was 
the midnight ; clang, crack and cry of death and fury filled 



W, E. Burghardt Du Bois 51 

the air and trembled underneath the stars when church 
spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate 
the greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of 
vengeance ! 

Bend us Thine ear^ O Lord! 

In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. 
We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but they 
— did they not wag their heads and leer and cry with 
bloody jaws: Cease from Crime! The word was mock- 
ery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do 
cure one. 

Turn again our captivity, O Lord! 

Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was 
an humble black man who toiled and sweat to save a bit 
from the pittance paid him. They told him: Work and 
Rise, He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some 
one told how some one said another did — one whom he 
had never seen nor known. Yet for that man's crime this 
man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to 
shame, his children, to poverty and evil. 
Hear us, O Heavenly Father! 

Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, 
O God ? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent 
blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for 
vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes 
who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, 
and burn it in hell forever and forever ! 

Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say! 



52 W, E. Burghardt Du Bois 

Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the mad- 
ness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; 
straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we raise our 
shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of 
our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by 
the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth 
this? Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign! 
Keep not thou silence, O God! 

Sit no longer blind. Lord God, deaf to our prayer 
and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely Thou too art 
not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing? 
Ah! Christ of all the Pities! 

Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous 
words. Thou art still the God of our black fathers, and 
in Thy soul's soul sit some soft darkenings of the even- 
ing, some shadowings of the velvet night. 

But whisper — speak — call, great God, for Thy silence 
is white terror to our hearts! The way, O God, show 
us the way and point us the path. 

Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, 
the coward, and without, the liar. Whither ? To death ? 
Amen! Welcome dark sleep! 

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not 
this. Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond 
our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing 
within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder 



W. E. Burghardt Du Bois 53 

lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and 
awful shape. 
Selahf 

In yonder East trembles a star. 

Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord! 

Thy will, O Lord, be done! 
Kyrie Eleisonf 

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. 
We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord! 

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of 
women and little children. 

We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord! 

Our voices sink in silence and in night. 
Hear us, good Lord! 

In night, O God of a godless land ! 
Amen! 

In silence, O Silent God. 
Selah! 



George Marion McClellan 

DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS 

To dreamy languors and the violet mist 

Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale 
Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, 

Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale 
Of Summer promises and tender green, 

Of a new life and beauty yet unseen. 
The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, 

Where dying winds of March their branches swing, 
While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, 

A hand invisible leads on the Spnng. 

His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins 

With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups. 
Where to the warm and passing southern winds. 

Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups. 
Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, 

The fields will spread with every brilliant hue. 
But high o'er all the early floral train, 

Where softness all the arching sky resumes, 
The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, 

In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms. 



55 



56 George Marion McClellan 



A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH 

What dost thou here, thou shining, sinless thing, 
With many colored hues and shapely wing? 
Why quit the open field and summer air 
To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer. 

*Tis meet that we, who this great structure built. 
Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, 
For we this gilded edifice within 
Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin. 

But thou art free from guilt as God on high; 
Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, 
And leave us here our secret woes to bear, 
Confessionals and agonies of prayer. 



George Marion McClellan 57 



THE HILLS OF SEWANEE 

Sewanee Hills of dear delight, 

Prompting my dreams that used to be, 
I know you are waiting me still to-night 

By the Unika Range of Tennessee. 

The blinking stars in endless space, 

The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, 

To-night caress your wind-swept face. 
And fold you in a thousand dreams. 

Your far outlines, less seen than felt, 
Which wind with hill propensities. 

In moonlight dreams I see you melt 
Away in vague immensities. 

And, far away, I still can feel 
Your mystery that ever speaks 

Of vanished things, as shadows steal 
Across your breast and rugged peaks. 

O, dear blue hills, that lie apart. 
And wait so patiently down there, 

Your peace takes hold upon my heart 
And makes its burden less to bear. 



58 George Marion McClellan 



THE FEET OF JUDAS 

Christ washed the feet of Judas! 

The dark and evil passions of his soul, 

His secret plot, and sordidness complete, 

His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, 

And still in love he stooped and washed his feet. 

Christ washed the feet of Judas! 

Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, 

His bargain with the priest, and more than this, 

In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, 

Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss. 

Christ washed the feet of Judas! 
And so ineffable his love *twas meet. 
That pity fill his great forgiving heart, 
And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, 
Who in his Lord had basely sold his part. 

Christ washed the feet of Judas! 

And thus a girded servant, self-abased, 

Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven 

Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, 

And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. 

And so if we have ever felt the wrong 
Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, 
What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, 
Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: 
Christ washed the feet of Judas. 



William Stanley Braithwaite 

SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE 

Sandy Star and Willie Gee, 
Count 'em two, you make 'em three: 
Pluck the man and boy apart 
And you'll see into my heart. 



59 



6o William Stanley Braithwaite 



SANDY STAR 

I 

Sculptured Worship 
The zones of warmth around his heart, 

No alien airs had crossed ; 
But he awoke one morn to feel 

The magic numbness of autumnal frost. 

His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, 
And tangled emotions, vague and dim; 

And sacrificing what he loved 
He lost the dearest part of him. 

In sculptured worship now he lives, 
His one desire a prisoned ache; 

H he can never melt again 
His very heart will break. 

H 
Laughing It Out 
He had a whim and laughed it out 

Upon the exit of a chance; 
He floundered in a sea of doubt — 
If life was real — or just romance. 

Sometimes upon his brow would come 

A little pucker of defiance ; 
He totalled in a word the sum 

Of all man made of facts and science. 



William Stanley Braithwaite 6i 

And then a hearty laugh would break, 

A reassuring shrug of shoulder; 
And we would from his fancy take 

A faith in death which made life bolder. 



Ill 
Exit 

No, his exit by the gate 

Will not leave the wind ajar; 

He will go when it is late 
With a misty star. 

One will call, he cannot see; 

One will call, he will not hear; 
He will take no company 

Nor a hope or fear. 

We shall smile who loved him so — 
They who gave him hate will weep; 

But for us the winds will blow 
Pulsing through his sleep. 

IV 

The Way 

He could not tell the way he came, 
Because his chart was lost: 

Yet all his way was paved with flame 
From the bourne he crossed. 



62 William Stanley Braithwaite 

He did not know the way to go, 

Because he had no map : 
He followed where the winds blow, — 

And the April sap. 

He never knew upon his brow 
The secret that he bore, — 

And laughs away the mystery now 
The dark's at his door. 

V 

Onus P rob audi 

No more from out the sunset, 
No more across the foam. 

No more across the windy hills 
Will Sandy Star come home. 

He went away to search it 
With a curse upon his tongue: 

And in his hand the staff of life, 
Made music as it swung. 

I wonder if he found it, 

And knows the mystery now — 

Our Sandy Star who went away. 
With the secret on his brow. 



William Stanley Braithwaite 63 



DEL CASCAR 

Del Cascar, Del Cascar, 

Stood upon a flaming star, 

Stood, and let his feet hang down 

Till in China the toes turned brown. 

And he reached his fingers over 
The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, 
And caught a Mandarin at prayer, 
And tickled his nose in Orion's hair. 

The sun went down through crimson bars, 
And left his blind face battered with stars — 
But the brown toes in China kept 
Hot the tears Del Cascar wept. 



64 William Stanley Braithwaite 



TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES 

Turn me to my yellow leaves, 

I am better satisfied ; 

There is something in me grieves — 

That was never born, and died. 

Let me be a scarlet flame 

On a windy autumn morn, 

I who never had a name, 

Nor from breathing image born. 

From the margin let me fall 

Where the farthest stars sink down, 

And the void consumes me, — all 

In nothingness to drown. 

Let me dream my dream entire. 

Withered as an autumn leaf — 

Let me have my vain desire. 

Vain — as it is brief. 



William Stanley Braithwaite 65 



IRONIC: LL.D. 

There are no hollows any more 

Between the mountains; the prairie floor 

Is like a curtain with the drape 

Of the winds' invisible shape; 

And nowhere seen and nowhere heard 

The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird. 

Now we're traveling, what holds back 

Arrival, in the very track 

Where the urge put forth ; so we stay 

And move a thousand miles a day. 

Time's a Fancy ringing bells 

Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells! 



66 William Stanley Braithwaite 



SCINTILLA 

I kissed a kiss in youth 
Upon a dead man's brow; 

And that was long ago, — 
And I'm a grown man now. 

It's lain there in the dust, 
Thirty years and more; — 

My lips that set a light 
At a dead man's door. 



William Stanley Braithwaite 67 



SIC VITA 

Heart free, hand free, 

Blue above, brown under, 
All the world to me 

Is a place of wonder. 
Sun shine, moon shine, 

Stars, and winds a-blowing. 
All into this heart of mine 

Flowing, flowing, flowing! 

Mind free, step free. 

Days to follow after, 
Joys of life sold to me 

For the price of laughter. 
Girl's love, man's love. 

Love of work and duty, 
Just a will of God's to prove 

Beauty, beauty, beauty! 



68 William Stanley Braithwaite 



RHAPSODY 

I am glad daylong for the gift of song, 

For time and change and sorrow; 

For the sunset wings and the world-end things 

Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. 

I am glad for my heart whose gates apart 

Are the entrance-place of wonders, 

Where dreams come In from the rush and din 

Like sheep from the rains and thunders. 



George Reginald Margetson 

STANZAS FROM 

THE FLEDGLING :SaRD AND THE POETRY 
SOCIETY 

Part I 

Vm out to find the new, the modern school, 

Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, 

Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, 

To write the stuff the editors would buy; 

It matters not e'en tho it be a lie, — 

Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown 

And build up one instead decked with a new renown. 

A thought is haunting me by night and day, 
And in some safe archive I seek to lay it ; 
I have some startling thing I wish to say, 
And they can put me wise just how to say it. 
Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, 
Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, 
And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense. 

Will some kind one direct me to that college 
Where every budding genius now is headed, 
The only source to gain poetic knowledge. 
Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, 
69 



70 George Reginald Margetson 

Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded, — 
The factory where they shape new feet and meters 
That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters. 

I hope I'll be an eligible student, 

E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, 

But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent, — 

A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance 

Who thinks that he can make the muses dance 

By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, 

To win some fool's applause and please his own desire. 

Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect 

That I am not a true, a genuine poet; 

If in the poet's colors I am decked 

They may not ask me e'er to prove or show It. 

I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow It, 

But be content to gaze with open mind ; 

I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind. 



Part II 

• •••••• 

I have a problem all alone to solve, 

A problem how to find the poetry club. 

It makes my sky piece like a top revolve. 

For fear that they might mark me for a snob. 

They'll call me poetry monger and then dub 

Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose. 

Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse. 



George Reginald Margetson Ji 

Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, 
In which he sang of all his lovely dears, 
Called forth hot condemnation and cold look. 
From lesser mortals who were not his peers. 
They chided him for telling his affairs, 
Because they could not tell their own so well, 
They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell. 

They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight. 

And all because he dared to tell the truth. 

Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite, — 

A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. 

They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; 

Because he blended human with divine, 

They branded him "the bard of women and of wine.'* 

Of course I soak the booze once in a while, 
But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it ; 
I love the girls, they win me with a smile, 
But no one knows, for I won't write about it. 
And so the fools may never think to doubt it. 
When I declare I am a moral man. 
As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan. 



Every man has got a hobby. 
Every poet has some fault. 
Every sweet contains its bitter, 
Every fresh thing has its salt. 

Every mountain has a valley, 
Every valley has a hill. 
Every ravine is a river, 
Every river is a rill. 



72 George Reginald Margetson 

Every fool has got some wisdom, 
Every w^ise man is a fool, 
Every scholar is a block-head, 
Every dunce has been to school. 

Every bad man is a good man, 
Every fat man is not stout, 
Every good man is a bad man 
But 'tis hard to find him out. 

Every strong man is a weak man, 
You may doubt it as you please, 
Every well man is a sick man, 
Every doctor has disease. 



James Weldon Johnson 

O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS 

O black and unknown bards of long ago, 
How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? 
How, in your darkness, did you come to know 
The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre? 
Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes? 
Who first from out the still watch, lone and long, 
Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise 
Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song? 

Heart of what slave poured out such melody 

As "Steal away to Jesus" ? On its strains 

His spirit must have nightly floated free, 

Though still about his hands he felt his chains. 

Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye 

Saw chariot "swing low" ? And who was he 

That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, 

"Nobody knows de trouble I see"? 

What merely living clod, what captive thing. 
Could up toward God through all its darkness grope, 
And find within its deadened heart to sing 
These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope? 
How did it catch that subtle undertone, 
That note in music heard not with the ears? 
73 



74 James Weldon Johnson 

How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown, 
Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears. 



Not that great German master in his dream 

Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars 

At the creation, ever heard a theme 

Nobler than **Go down, Moses." Mark its bars 

How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir 

The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung 

Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were 

That helped make history when Time was young. 

There is a wide, wide wonder in it all. 

That from degraded rest and servile toil 

The fiery spirit of the seer should call 

These simple children of the sun and soil. 

O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed. 

You — you alone, of all the long, long line 

Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed, 

Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. 

You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings ; 
No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean 
Of arms-won triumphs ; but your humble strings 
You touched in chord with music empyrean. 
You sang far better than you knew; the songs 
That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed 
Still live, — but more than this to you belongs : 
You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ. 



James Weldon Johnson 75 



SENCE YOU WENT AWAY 

Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, 
Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light, 
Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right, 
Sence you went away. 

Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue, 
Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you, 
Seems lak to me I don't know what to do, 
Sence you went away. 

Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong. 
Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long, 
Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song, 
Sence you went away. 

Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh, 
Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry, 
Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye, 
Sence you went away. 



76 James Weldon Johnson 

THE CREATION 

{A Negro Sermon) 

And God stepped out on space, 
And He looked around and said, 
"rm lonely — 
I'll make me a world/' 

And far as the eye of God could see 
Darkness covered everything, 
Blacker than a hundred midnights 
Down in a cypress swamp. 

Then God smiled, 

And the light broke, 

And the darkness rolled up on one side. 

And the light stood shining on the other, 

And God said, *' That's good!" 

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, 

And God rolled the light around in His hands 

Until He made the sun; 

And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. 

And the light that was left from making the sun 

God gathered it up in a shining ball 

And flung it against the darkness, 

Spangling the night with the moon and stars. 

Then down between 

The darkness and the light 

He hurled the world ; 

And God said, ''That's good!" 



James Weldon Johnson 77 

Then God himself stepped down — 
And the run was on His right hand, 
And the moon was on His left; 
The stars were clustered about His head, 
And the earth was under His feet. 
And God walked, and where He trod 
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out 
And bulged the mountains up. 

Then He stopped and looked and saw 

That the earth was hot and barren. 

So God stepped over to the edge of the world 

And He spat out the seven seas; 

He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; 

He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled ; 

And the waters above the earth came down, 

The cooling waters came down. 

Then the green grass sprouted. 

And the little red flowers blossomed, 

The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky. 

And the oak spread out his arms. 

The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, 

And the rivers ran down to the sea; 

And God smiled again. 

And the rainbow appeared, 

And curled itself around His shoulder. 

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand 
Over the sea and over the land, 
And He said, ^'Bring forth! Bring forth/" 
And quicker than God could drop His hand. 



78 James Weldon Johnson 

Fishes and fowls 

And beasts and birds 

Swam the rivers and the seas, 

Roamed the forests and the woods, 

And split the air with their wings. 

And God said, "That's good!" 



Then God walked around, 

And God looked around 

On all that He had made. 

He looked at His sun. 

And He looked at His moon. 

And He looked at His little stars; 

He looked on His world 

With all its living things, 

And God said, 'Tm lonely still*' 

Then God sat down 

On the side of a hill where He could think; 

By a deep, wide river He sat down; 

With His head in His hands, 

God thought and thought, 

Till He thought, 'Til make me a manf* 

Up from the bed of the river 

God scooped the clay ; 

And by the bank of the river 

He kneeled Him down; 

And there the great God Almighty 

Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, 



James Weldon Johnson 79 

Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, 

Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; 

This Great God, 

Like a mammy bending over her baby, 

Kneeled down in the dust 

Toiling over a lump of clay 

Till He shaped it in His own image; 

Then into it He blew the breath of life, 
And man became a living soul. 
Amen. Amen. 



8o James Weldon Johnson 



THE WHITE WITCH 

O brothers mine, take care ! Take care ! " 
The great white witch rides out to-night.-" 
Trust not your prowess nor your strength/ 
Your only safety lies in flight ; 
For in her glance there is a snare, 
And in her smile there is a blight. 

The great white witch you have not seen ? ' 
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth. 
Like nursery children you have looked 
For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth ; 
But no, not so ; the witch appears 
In all the glowing charms of youth. 

Her lips are like carnations, red, 
Her face like new-born lilies, fair, 
Her eyes like ocean waters, blue. 
She moves with subtle grace and air, 
And all about her head there floats 
The golden glory of her hair. 

But though she always thus appears 
In form of youth and mood of mirth, 
Unnumbered centuries are hers. 
The infant planets saw her birth; 
The child of throbbing Life is she. 
Twin sister to the greedy earth. 



James Weldon Johnson 8l 

And back behind those smiling lips, 
And down within those laughing eyes, 
And underneath the soft caress 
Of hand and voice and purring sighs, 
The shadow of the panther lurks. 
The spirit of the vampire lies. 

For I have seen the great white witch, 
And she has led me to her lair, 
And I have kissed her red, red lips 
And cruel face so white and fair; 
Around me she has twined her arms. 
And bound me with her yellow hair. 

I felt those red lips burn and sear 
My body like a living coal; 
Obeyed the power of those eyes 
As the needle trembles to the pole ; 
And did not care although I felt 
The strength go ebbing from my soul. 

Oh ! she has seen your strong young limbs. 
And heard your laughter loud and gay. 
And in your voices she has caught 
The echo of a far-off day, 
When man was closer to the earth; 
And she has marked you for her prey. 

She feels the old Antaean strength 
In you, the great dynamic beat 
Of primal passions, and she sees 
In you the last besieged retreat 



82 James Weldon Johnson 

Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, 
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet. 

O, brothers mine, take care ! Take care ! 
The great white witch rides out to-night. 
O, younger brothers mine, beware! 
Look not upon her beauty bright ; 
For in her glance there is a snare. 
And in her smile there is a blight. 



James Weldon Johnson 83 



MOTHER NIGHT 

Eternities before the first-born day, 

Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, 
Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, 
A brooding mother over chaos lay. 

And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, 
Shall run their fiery courses and then claim 
The haven of the darkness whence they came ; 
Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. 

So when my feeble sun of life burns out, ' 
And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, ^ 
I shall, full weary of the feverish light. 

Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, 
And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep 
Into the quiet bosom of the Night. 



84 James Weldon Johnson 



O SOUTHLAND! 

O Southland! O Southland! 

Have you not heard the call, 
The trumpet blown, the word made known 

To the nations, one and all ? 
The watchword, the hope-word, 

Salvation's present plan? 
A gospel new, for all — for you : 

Man shall be saved by man. 

O Southland! O Southland! 

Do you not hear to-day 
The mighty beat of onward feet, 

And know you not their way ? 
'Tis forward, 'tis upward, 

On to the fair white arch 
Of Freedom's dome, and there is room 

For each man who would march. 

O Southland, fair Southland! 

Then why do you still cling 
To an idle age and a musty page, 

To a dead and useless thing? 
'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time! 

The world is young again! 
And God's above, and God is love. 

And men are only men. 



James Weldon Johnson 85 

O Southland! my Southland! 

O birthland! do not shirk 
The toilsome task, nor respite ask, 

But gird you for the work. 
Remember, remember 

That weakness stalks in pride ; 
That he is strong who helps along 

The faint one at his side. 



86 James Weldon Johnson 



BROTHERS 

See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air 

Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he 

Not more like brute than man ? Look in his eye ! 

No light is there ; none, save the glint that shines 

In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs 

Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap. 

How came this beast in human shape and form? 
Speak, man ! — We call you man because you wear 
His shape — How are you thus? Are you not from 
That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race 
Which we have known three centuries? Not from 
That more than faithful race which through three wars 
Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes 
Without a single breach of trust? Speak out! 

I am, and am not. 

Then who, why are you? 

I am a thing not new, I am as old 
As human nature. I am that which lurks, 
Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed ; 
The ancient trait which fights incessantly 
Against restraint, balks at the upward climb; 
The weight forever seeking to obey 



James Weldon Johnson 87 

The law of downward pull; — and I am more: 

The bitter fruit am I of planted seed ; 

The resultant, the inevitable end 

Of evil forces and the powers of wrong. 

Lessons in degradation, taught and learned, 
The memories of cruel sights and deeds, 
The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate 
Filtered through fifteen generations have 
Sprung up and found in me sporadic life. 
In me the muttered curse of dying men, 
On me the stain of conquered women, and 
Consuming me the fearful fires of lust, 
Lit long ago, by other hands than mine. 
In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers 
Of wretches now long dead, — their dire bequests, — 
In me the echo of the stifled cry 
Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts. 

I claim no race, no race claims me; I am 
No more than human dregs; degenerate; 
The monstrous offspring of the monster. Sin ; 
I am — just what I am. . . . The race that fed 
Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same 
To-day, but I^ — 

Enough, the brute must die! 
Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist 
The fire much longer than this slender pine. 
Now bring the fuel ! Pile it 'round him ! Wait ! 
Pile not so fast or high ! or we shall lose 
The agony and terror in his face. 



88 James Weldon Johnson 

And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames 
Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek! 
And there's another ! Wilder than the first. 
Fetch water ! Water ! Pour a little on 
The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so ! 
Now let it slowly blaze again. See there! 
He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out, 
Searching around in vain appeal for help! 
Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh 
Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts 
Down through the coils of chain mat hold erect 
The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree. 

Stop! to each man no more than one man's share. 
You take that bone, and you this tooth ; the chain — 
Let us divide its links; this skull, of course, 
In fair division, to the leader comes. 

And now his fiendish crime has been avenged; 
Let us back to our wives and children. — Say, 
What did he mean by those last muttered words, 
*^Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we'*? 



James Wei don Johnson 89 

FIFTY YEARS 
(1863-1913) 

On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the 
Emancipation Proclamation 

O brothers mine, to-day we stand 

Where half a century sweeps our ken, 

Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, 
Struck off our bonds and made us men. 

Just fifty years — a winter's day — 

As runs the history of a race; 
Yet, as we look back o'er the way, 

How distant seems our starting place! 

Look farther back! Three centuries! 

To where a naked, shivering score. 
Snatched from their haunts across the seas, 

Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. 

This land is ours by right of birth, 

This land is ours by right of toil; 
We helped to turn its virgin earth, 

Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. 

Where once the tangled forest stood, — 

Where flourished once rank weed and thorn, — 

Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, 
The cotton white, the yellow corn. 



90 James Weldon Johnson 

To gain these fruits that have been earned, 
To hold these fields that have been v^^on, 

Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, 
Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. 

That Banner which is now the type 

Of victory on field and flood — 
Remember, its first crimson stripe 

Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. 

And never yet has come the cry — 

When that fair flag has been assailed — 

For men to do, for men to die, 

That we have faltered or have failed. 

We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, 

Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze 

Held in our hands, it has been borne 
And planted far across the seas. 

And never yet, — O haughty Land, 
Let us, at least, for this be praised — 

Has one black, treason-guided hand 
Ever against that flag been raised. 

Then should we speak but servile words, 
Or shall we hang our heads in shame? 

Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, 
And fear our heritage to claim? 

No! stand erect and without fear, 
And for our foes let this suffice — 

We've bought a rightful sonship here. 
And we have more than paid the price. 



James Weldon Johnson 91 

And yet, my brothers, well I know 

The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, 

The spirit bowed beneath the blow, 

The heart grown faint from wounds and stings j 

The staggering force of brutish might. 

That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; 

The long, vain waiting through the night 
To hear some voice for justice raised. 

Full well I know the hour when hope 
Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere 

Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope 
With hands uplifted in despair. 

Courage! Look out, beyond, and see 

The far horizon's beckoning span! 
Faith in your God-known destiny! 

We are a part of some great plan. 

Because the tongues of Garrison 

And Phillips now are cold in death, 
Think you their work can be undone? 

Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? 

Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? 

That Lovejoy was but idly slain? 
Or do you think those precious drops 

From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain ? 

That for which millions prayed and sighed, 
That for which tens of thousands fought, 

For which so many freely died, 
God cannot let it come to naught. 



John Wesley Holloway 

MISS MELERLEE 

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! 
Oh, you're pretty sight to see ! 
Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face. 
An' willowy form chuck full o' grace — 
De sweetes' gal Ah evah see. 
An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! 

Hello, Miss Melerlee! 

Hello dar. Miss Melerlee ! 
You're de berry gal f o' me ! 
Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, 
An' silky arm so plump an' bare! 
Ah lak yo' walk. Ah lak yo' clothes, 
An' de way Ah love you, — goodness knows! 

Hello, Miss Melerlee! 

Hello dar. Miss Melerlee! 
Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! 
Ah nevah seed yo* face befo' 
An' lakly won't again no mo' ; 
But yo' sweet smile will follow me 
Cla'r into eternity! 

Farewell, Miss Melerlee! 
93 



94 John Wesley Holloway 



CALLING THE DOCTOR 

Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick! 
G'\ me some'n' to he'p me quick, 
Don't,— Ah'll die! 

Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse*f ; 
Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f ; 
Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do. 
An' so Ah sent fo' you. 

"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: 

Firs', — horhound drops an' catnip tea; 

Den rock candy soaked in rum. 

An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum ; 

Next Ah tried was castor oil. 

An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil ; 

Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood ; 

But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. 

Den when home remedies seem to shirk, 

Dem pantry bottles was put to work : 

Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, 
"Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," 
Ready Relief, an' A. B. C, 
An' half a bottle of X. Y. Z. 
An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, 
Dey nevah done no good at all. 



John Wesley Holloway 95 

Mah appetite begun to fail; 
Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, 
Fo' mah ol' gran 'ma always said 
When yo' can't eat you're almost dead. 

So Ah got scared an' sent for you. — 
Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. 
Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! 
Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, 
Don't,— Ah'll die! 



96 John Wesley Holloway 

THE CORN SONG 

Jes' beyan a clump o' pines, — 

Lis'n to 'im now! — 
Hyah de jolly black boy, 

Singin', at his plow! 
In de early mornin', 

Thoo de hazy air, 
Loud an' clear, sweet an* strong 

Comes de music rare: 

"O mah dovee, Who-ah! 
Do you love me ? Who-ah ! 

Who-ah!" 
An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, 
Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; 
"Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!" 

Don't yo' love a co'n song? 

How it stirs yo' blood I 
Ever'body list'nin', 

In de neighborhood! 
Standin' in yo' front do' 

In de misty mo'n, 
Hyah de jolly black boy, 

Singin' in de co'n: 

"O Miss Julie, Who-ah! 

Love me truly, Who-ah! 

Who-ah!" 



John Wesley Holloway 97 

Hyah 'im scoF 'is mule so, 
Wen *e try to mek 'im go : 
"Gee! Whoa! Come ^ere!'* 



O you jolly black boy, 

Yod'lin' in de co'n, 
Callin' to yo' dawlin', 

In de dewy mo'n. 
Love 'er, boy, forevah, 

Yodel ever' day; 
Only le' me lis'n, 

As yo' sing away: 

"Omah dawlin'! Who-ah! 
Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! 

Who-ah!" 
Tu'n aroun' anothah row, 
Holler to yo' mule so : 

"Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!'* 



98 John Wesley Holloway 



BLACK MAMMIES 

If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek It thoo, 
Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, 

too, — 
Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to 

Miami, — 
Ov de highes' shaf In glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy. 

You will see a lot 0' Washington, an' Washington again ; 
An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' 

men; 
But dar'U be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de 

th'one. 
An' dey'll all be black an' homely, — 'less de Virgin Mary's 

one. 

Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men. 
An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy 

folks again: 
If It's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de 

eart'. 
Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble 

birt'. 

If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, 
Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but 

Him; 
If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors 

wear, 
Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere. 



John Wesley Holloway 99 

She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; 
But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was 

full; 
Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f om huh knees wid 

scowl an' frown, 
She jes' ''dumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug 

huh down. 

She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings 

went wrong, 
An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a 

song; 
She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de 

rod; 
She jes' ''stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to 

God! 

She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de 

word," 
Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de 

Lawd," 
If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, 
It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out; 

But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, 
An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be 

mine" ; 
An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f 

de bes', — 
Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly 

resM 



Leslie Pinckney Hill 

TUSKEGEE 

Wherefore this busy labor without rest? 

Is it an idle dream to which we cling, 

Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing 

Unto the world their hope? ''Build we our best. 

By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." 

So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, 

And so the thought is wedded to the thing ; 

But what shall be the end, and what the test? 

Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see 

Not many steps ahead, but this we know — 

If all our toilsome building is in vain, 

Availing not to set our manhood free. 

If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, 

The South will wear eternally a stain. 



xoz 



I02 Leslie Pinckney Hill 



CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE 

Come home with me a little space 

And browse about our ancient place, 

Lay by your wonted troubles here 

And have a turn of Christmas cheer. 

These sober walls of weathered stone 

Can tell a romance of their own, 

And these wide rooms of devious line 

Are kindly meant in their design. 

Sometimes the north wind searches through, 

But he shall not be rude to you. 

We'll light a log of generous girth 

For winter comfort, and the mirth 

Of healthy children you shall see 

About a sparkling Christmas tree. 

Eleanor, leader of the fold, 

Hermione with heart of gold, 

Elaine with comprehending eyes, 

And two more yet of coddling size, 

Natalie pondering all that's said. 

And Mary with the cherub head — 

All these shall give you sweet content 

And care-destroying merriment. 

While one with true madonna grace 

Moves round the glowing fire-place 

Where father loves to muse aside 

And grandma sits in silent pride. 

And you may chafe the wasting oak, 

Or freely pass the kindly joke 



Leslie Pinckney Hill 103 

To mix with nuts and home-made cake 
And apples set on coals to bake. 
Or some fine carol we will sing 
In honor of the Manger-King, 
Or hear great Milton's organ verse 
Or Plato's dialogue rehearse 
What Socrates with his last breath 
Sublimely said of life and death. 
These dear delights we fain would share 
With friend and kinsman everywhere, 
And from our door see them depart 
Each with a little lighter heart. 



I04 Leslie Pinckney Hill 



SUMMER MAGIC 

So many cares to vex the day, 

So many fears to haunt the night, 
My heart was all but weaned away 

From every lure of old delight. 
Then summer came, announced by June, 

With beauty, miracle and mirth. 
She hung aloft the rounding moon. 

She poured her sunshine on the earth, 
She drove the sap and broke the bud, 

She set the crimson rose afire. 
She stirred again my sullen blood, 

And waked in me a new desire. 
Before my cottage door she spread 

The softest carpet nature weaves. 
And deftly arched above my head 

A canopy of shady leaves. 
Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, 

Her days were bowers rife with song. 
And many a scheme did she devise 

To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong. 
For on the hill or in the dell, 

Or where the brook went leaping by 
Or where the fields would surge and swell 

With golden wheat or bearded rye, 
I felt her heart against my own, 

I breathed the sweetness of her breath, 
Till all the cark of time had flown, 

And I was lord of life and death. 



Leslie Pinckney Hill 105 



THE TEACHER 

Lord, who am I to teach the way 
To little children day by day, 
So prone myself to go astray? 

I teach them Knowledge, but I know 
How faint they flicker and how low 
The candles of my knowledge glow. 

I teach them Power to will and do, 

But only now to learn anew 

My own great weakness through and through. 

I teach them Love for all mankind 
And all God's creatures, but I find 
My love comes lagging far behind. 

Lord, if their guide I still must be, 

Oh let the little children see 

The teacher leaning hard on Thee. 



Edward Smyth Jones 

A SONG OF THANKS 

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, 

For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, 

For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, 

For her coffers filled with their countless worth. 

For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills. 

For the rippling streams which turn the mills, 

For the lowing herds in the lovely vale. 

For the songs of gladness on the gale, — 

From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, — 

Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks ! 

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, 
For the bounty which the rich soil yields. 
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains. 
For the sun which ripens the golden grains, 
For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, 
For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine. 
For the tubers large and cotton white. 
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe. 
For the swan which floats near the river-banks, — 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks ! 

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, 
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, 
107 



io8 Edward Smyth Jones 

For the plum and the peach and the apple red, 
For the dear old press where the wine is tread, 
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, 
And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, 
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, 
For the game which hide in the shady nooks, — 
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks — 
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! 

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, 

For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines. 

For the silver ores of a thousand fold, 

For the diamond bright and the yellow gold. 

For the river boat and the flying train, 

For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, 

For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, 

For the flag of peace which we now unfurl, — 

From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans* banks, — 

Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! 

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, 

For the peace and plenty together share. 

For the Hand which guides us from above. 

For Thy tender mercies, abiding love. 

For the blessed home with its children gay. 

For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, 

For the bearing toils and the sharing cares. 

We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers, — 

From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks, — 

Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! 



Ray G. Dandridge 

TIME TO DIE 

Black brother, think you life so sweet 

That you would live at any price? 

Does mere existence balance with 

The weight of your great sacrifice? 

Or can it be you fear the grave 

Enough to live and die a slave? 

O Brother! be it better said, 

When you are gone and tears are shed, 

That your death was the stepping stone 

Your children's children cross'd upon. 

Men have died that men might live : 

Look every foeman in the eye! 

If necessary, your life give 

For something, ere in vain you die. 



109 



no Ray G. Dandridge 

^ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD 

(ToR.V.P.) 

Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings 
Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, 
Truint Angel, wifout wings, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. 

Stop ! Stop ! How dare you laff et me, 
Bekaze I foul de time an' key, 
Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head? 

O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, 
Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, 
Is sho a God gib natchel prize, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. 

An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet. 
Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, 
Jes to roun' you out, complete, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. 

Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, 
Knows yore evah A, B, C, 
Plum on down to X, Y, Z, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. 



Ray G. Dandridge 111 

De man doan know how much he miss, 
Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; 
Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head ! 

I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, 
(By charm or craf — doan mattah how) 
You stay jes lak you is right now, 
Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. 



112 Ray G, Dandridge 

ZALKA PEETRUZA 

{Who Was Christened Lucy Jane) 

She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, 
With swaying arms and flying feet, 
'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, 
Her all was dancing — save her face. 

A conscience, dumb to brooding fears. 
Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; 
A body, marshalled by the will, 
Kept dancing while a heart stood still: 

And eyes obsessed with vacant stare. 
Looked over heads to empty air, 
As though they sought to find therein 
Redemption for a maiden sin. 

'Twas thus, amid force driven grace. 
We found the lost look on her face; 
And then, to us, did it occur 
That, though we saw — we saw not her. 



Ray G, Dandridge 113 



SPRIN' FEVAH 

Dar*s a lazy, sortah hazy 

Feelin* grips me, thoo an' thoo; 

An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin*; 

Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, 

Dough de task et han' is easy, 

An' de day am fair an' breezy, 

Dar's a thkf dat steals embition in de win*. 

Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, 

Kaze it jes won't be denied ; 

Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; 

Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; 

Doctahs fail to analyze it; 

So I yiel's (dough I despise it) 

To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'. 



114 ^^y ^' Dandridge 



DE DRUM MAJAH 

He's struttin' sho ernuff, 
Wearin' a lady's muff 
En' ways erpon his head, 
Red coat ob reddest red, 
Purtty white satin ves', 
Gole braid ercross de ches'; 
Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, 
Prancin' out dar in frunt, 
Leadin' his ban'. 

Wen dat ah whistle blows. 
Each man behine him knows 
'Zacklee whut he mus' do; 
You bet! he dues it, too. 
Wen dat brass stick he twirls, 
Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls 
Looks on wid longin' eyes, 
Dey simpley idolize 
Dat han'sum man. 

Sweet fife an' piccalo, 
Bofe warblin' sof an' lo', 
Slide ho'n an' saxophones. 
Jazz syncopated tones, 
Snare drum an' lead cornet, 
Alto an' clarinet, 
Las', but not least, dar cum 
Cymbals an' big bass drum — 
O ! whut a ban' ! 



Ray G. Dandridge 115 

Cose, we all undahstan' 
Each piece he'ps malk de ban', 
But dey all mus' be led, 
Sum one mus' be de head: 
No doubt, de centipede 
Has all de laigs he need, 
But take erway de head, 
Po' centipede am dead; 
So am de ban'. 



Fenton Johnson 

CHILDREN OF THE SUN 

We are children of the sun, 

Rising sun! 
Weaving Southern destiny, 
Waiting for the mighty hour 
When our Shiloh shall appear 
With the flaming sword of right, 
With the steel of brotherhood. 
And emboss in crimson die 
Liberty ! Fraternity ! 

We are the star-dust folk, 

Striving folk! 
Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; 
Seething passions wrought through wrongs, 
Led us where the moon rays dip 
In the night of dull despair, 
Showed us where the star gleams shine, 
And the mystic symbols glow — 
Liberty I Fraternity ! 

We have come through cloud and mist, 

Mighty men ! 
Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, 
117 



Ii8 Fenton Johnson 

Reared for us a mystic throne 
In the splendor of the skies, 
That shall always be for us, 
Children of the Nazarene, 
Children who shall ever sing 
Liberty ! Fraternity ! 



Fenton Johnson 119 

THE NEW DAY 
From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince 

of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. 
Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was 

drowned by the happy shouting of the people. 
From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant 

from the throats of white-robed angels: 

Blow your trumpets, little children! 

From the East and from the West, 

From the cities in the valley, 

From God's dwelling on the mountain, 

Blow your blast that Peace might know 

She is Queen of God's great army. 

With the crying blood of millions 

We have written deep her name 

In the Book of all the Ages; 

With the lilies in the valley, 

With the roses by the Mersey, 

With the golden flower of Jersey 

We have crowned her smooth young temples. 

Where her footsteps cease to falter 

Golden grain will greet the morning, 

Where her chariot descends 

Shall be broken down the altars 

Of the gods of dark disturbance. 

Nevermore shall men know suffering, 

Nevermore shall women wailing 

Shake to grief the God of Heaven. 

From the East and from the West, 

From the cities in the valley, 



120 Fenton Johnson 

From God's dwelling on the mountain, 
Little children, blow your trumpets! 

From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I 
heard the music of the old slave songs. 

I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly 
fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. 

I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the 
crimson in my veins leapt furiously. 

Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought 

In No Man's Land that peace might come again! 

Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave 

Red blood to save the freedom of the world! 

We were not free, our tawny hands were tied ; 

But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared 

Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. 

So when the bugle blast had called us forth 

We went not like the surly brute of yore 

But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world 

The freedom that we never knew nor shared. 

These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down 

As Samson in the temple of the gods; 

Unloosen them and let us breathe the air 

That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. 

For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, 

Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself ; 

And now we ask of thee our liberty, 

Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes. 

I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No 
Man*s Land. 



Fenton Johnson I2i 



TIRED 



I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody 

else's civilization. 
Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane. 
I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon 

or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and 

sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike's barrels. 
You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's 

clothes turn to dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church 

sink to the bottomless pit. 
You will spend your days forgetting you married me and 

your nights hunting the warm gin Mike serves the 

ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon. 
Throw the children into the river; civilization has given 

us too many. It is better to die than it is to grow 

up and find out that you are colored. 
Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our 

destiny. The stars marked my destiny. 
I am tired of civilization. 



122 Fenton Johnson 



THE BANJO PLAYER 

There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. 

I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and sing- 
ing my songs of the cabin and the field. At the 
Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets 
in March; there is always food and drink for me 
there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. 
Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap 
their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle. 

But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman 
called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? 



Fenton Johnson 123 



THE SCARLET WOMAN 

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minis- 
ter's wife. 

My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's 
tips; but he died two days after his insurance ex- 
pired. 

I had nothing, so I had to go to work. 

All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a 
face that enchanted the men of both races. 

Starvation danced with me. 

So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, 
came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap 
from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice. 

Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles 
around. 

Gin is better than all the water in Lethe. 



R. Nathaniel Dett 

THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE 

Staccato ! Staccato ! 
Leggier agitato! 

In and out does the melody twist — 
Unique proposition 
Is this composition. 

(Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) 
Now in the dominant 
Theme ringing prominent, 

Bass still repeating its one monotone, 
Double notes crying, 
Up keyboard go flying, 

The change to the minor comes in like a groan. 
Without a cessation 
A chaste modulation 

Hastens adown to subdominant keyy 
Where melody mellow-like 
Singing so 'cello-like 

Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. 
Scarce is this finished 
When chords all diminished 

Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, 
A pedal-point wonder 
Rivaling thunder. 

Now all is mad agitation again. 
125 



126 R. Nathaniel Dett 

Like laughter jolly 
Begins the finale ; 

Again does the *cello its tones seem to lend 
Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. 

Ah ! Rubinstein only could make such an end ! 



Georgia Douglas Johnson 

THE HEART OF A WOMAN 

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, 
As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, 
Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam 
In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. 

The heart of a woman falls back with the night, 
And enters some alien cage in its plight. 
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars 
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. 



127 



128 Georgia Douglas Johnson 



YOUTH 

The dew is on the grasses, dear, 

The blush is on the rose, 
And swift across our dial-youth, 

A shifting shadow goes. 

The primrose moments, lush with bliss, 

Exhale and fade away. 
Life may renew the Autumn time, 

But nevermore the May! 



Georgia Douglas Johnson 129 



LOST ILLUSIONS 

Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, 
Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, 
Why did I stray from their shelter and grow 
Into the sadness that follows — to know! 

Impotent atom with desolate gaze 
Threading the tumult of hazardous ways — 
Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth 
Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth! 



130 Georgia Douglas Johnson 



I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME 

I want to die while you love me, 
While yet you hold me fair, 

While laughter lies upon my lips 
And lights are in my hair. 

I want to die while you love me, 

And bear to that still bed, 
Your kisses turbulent, unspent 

To warm me when I'm dead. 

I want to die while you love me 
Oh, who would care to live 

Till love has nothing more to ask 
And nothing more to give! 

I want to die while you love me 

And never, never see 
The glory of this perfect day 

Grow dim or cease to be. 



Georgia Douglas Johnson 131 



WELT 

Would I might mend the fabric of my youth 
That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, 
Would I might compromise awhile with truth 
Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies. 

For I would go a further while with you, 
And drain this cup so tantalant and fair 
Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew, 
Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair! 



132 Georgia Douglas Johnson 



MY LITTLE DREAMS 

Tm folding up my little dreams 
Within my heart to-night, 
And praying I may soon forget 
The torture of their sight. 

For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow 
With fell relentless art — 
I'm folding up my little dreams 
To-night, within my heart! 



Claude McKay 

THE LYNCHING 

His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. 

His father, by the cruelest way of pain, 

Had bidden him to his bosom once again ; 

The awful sin remained still unforgiven. 

All night a bright and solitary star 

(Perchance the one that ever guided him, 

Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) 

Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. 

Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view 

The ghastly body swaying in the sun: 

The women thronged to look, but never a one 

Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; 

And little lads, lynchers that were to be, 

Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. 



133 



134 Claude McKay 



IF WE MUST DIE 

If we must die — let it not be like hogs 
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, 
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, 
Making their mock at our accursed lot. 
If we must die — oh, let us nobly die. 
So that our precious blood may not be shed 
In vain; then even the monsters we defy 
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! 

Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; 
Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, 
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! 
What though before us lies the open grave? 
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, 
Pressed to the wall, dying, but — fighting back! 



Claude McKay 135 



TO THE WHITE FIENDS 

Think you I am not fiend and savage too? 

Think you I could not arm me with a gun 

And shoot down ten of you for every one 

Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? 

Be not deceived, for every deed you do 

I could match — out-match: am I not Africa's son, 

Black of that black land where black deeds are done? 

But the Almighty from the darkness drew 
My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light 
Awhile to burn on the benighted earth. 
Thy dusky face I set among the white 
For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; 
Before the world is swallowed up in night, 
To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth! 



136 Claude McKay 



THE HARLEM DANCER 

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes 

And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; 

Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes 

Blown by black players upon a picnic day. 

She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, 

The light gauze hanging loose about her form; 

To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm 

Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. 

Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls 

Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, 

The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, 

Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; 

But, looking at her falsely-smiling face 

I knew her self was not in that strange place. 



Claude McKay 137 



HARLEM SHADOWS 

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass 

In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall 

Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass 
Eager to heed desire's insistent call: 

Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet 

Go prowling through the night from street to street. 

Through the long night until the silver break 

Of day the little gray feet know no rest. 
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake 

Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, 
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet 

Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. 

Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way 

Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace. 
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. 

The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! 
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet 

In Harlem wandering from street to street. 



138 Claude McKay 



AFTER THE WINTER 

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, 

And against the morning's white 
The shivering birds beneath the eaves 

Have sheltered for the night, 
We'll turn our faces southward, love, 

Toward the summer isle 
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove 

And wide-mouthed orchids smile. 

And we will seek the quiet hill 

Where towers the cotton tree, 
And leaps the laughing crystal rill, 

And works the droning bee. 
And we will build a lonely nest 

Beside an open glade, 
And there forever will we rest, 

O love — O nut-brown maid! 



Claude McKay 139 



SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE 

Too green the springing April grass, 
Too blue the silver speckled sky, 
For me to linger here, alas, 
While happy winds go laughing by. 
Wasting the golden hours indoors. 
Washing windows and scrubbing floors. 

Too wonderful the April night, 

Too faintly sweet the first May flowers. 

The stars too gloriously bright, 

For me to spend the evening hours, 

When fields are fresh and streams are leaping. 

Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping. 



140 Claude McKay 



THE TIRED WORKER 

O whisper, O my soul! — the afternoon 

Is waning into evening — whisper soft! 

Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon 

From out its misty veil will swing aloft! 

Be patient, weary body, soon the night 

Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, 

And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite 

To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. 

The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; 

Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. 

But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? 

O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! 

Weary my veins, my brain, my life, — have pity! 

No ! Once again the hard, the ugly city. 



Claude McKay 141 



THE BARRIER 

I must not gaze at them although 
Your eyes are dawning day ; 

I must not watch you as you go 
Your sun-illumined way ; 

I hear but I must never heed 

The fascinating note, 
Which, fluting like a river-reed, 

Comes from your trembling throat ; 

I must not see upon your face 
Love's softly glowing spark; 

For there's the barrier of race, 
You're fair and I am dark. 



142 Claude McKay 



TO O. E. A. 

Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, 

And there's a sweet sob in it like rain — still rain in the 
night. 
Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, 
The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with 
strange delight 
Like the words, wet with music, that well from your 
trembling throat. 
I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold. 
Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining 
like gold. 
But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on 

the lips of the eucharis 
Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss, 

You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness, 
Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty- 
shorn earth. 
All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of theii 
wealth to your birth : 
O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I 
feel it is wrong, 
But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal 
spirit burdened with flesh, 
Forever, life-long. 



Claude McKay 143 



FLAME-HEART 

So much have I forgotten in ten years, 

So much in ten brief years; I have forgot 
What time the purple apples come to juice 

And what month brings the shy forget-me-not ; 
Forgotten is the special, startling season 

Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting. 
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields 

And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: 
I have forgotten much, but still remember 
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. 

I still recall the honey-fever grass. 

But I cannot bring back to mind just when 
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path 

To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. 
I often try to think in what sweet month 

The languid painted ladies used to dapple 
The yellow bye road mazing from the main, 

Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple ; 
I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember 
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. 

What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year 

We cheated school to have our fling at tops? 
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy 
'Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? 



144 Claude McKay 

Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, 
Even the sacred moments, v^^hen we played, 

All innocent of passion uncorrupt, 

At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade: 

We were so happy, happy, — I remember 

Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. 



Claude McKay 145 



TWO-AN'-SIX 

Merry voices chatterin', 
Nimble feet dem patterin', 
Big an' little, faces gay, 
Happy day dis market day. 

Sateday, de marnin' break, 
Soon, soon market-people wake; 
An' de light shine from de moon 
While dem boy, wid pantaloon 
Roll up ober dem knee-pan, 
'Tep across de buccra Ian' 
To de pastur whe' de harse 
Feed along wid de jackass. 
An' de mule cant' in de track 
Wid him tail up in him back, 
All de ketchin' to defy. 
No ca' how dem boy might try. 

In de early marnin'-tide. 
When de cocks crow on de hill 
An' de stars are shinin' still, 
Mirrie by de fireside 
Hots de coffee for de lads 
Comin' ridin' on de pads 
T'rown across dem animul — 
Donkey, harse too, an' de mule. 
Which at last had come do'n cool. 
On de bit dem hoi' dem full: 



146 Claude McKay 

Racin' ober pastur' Ian', 
See dem comin' ebery man, 
Comin' fe de steamin' tea 
Ober hilly track an' lea. 

Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road 
Trottin' wid him ushal load, 
Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, 
Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane. 

Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, 
Drivin' 'long de market way ; 
Whole week grindin' sugar cane 
T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain. 
Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, 
He goes seekin' his reward, 
While he's thinkin' in him min* 
Of de dear ones lef behin', 
Of de loved though ailin' wife, 
Darlin' treasure of his life. 
An' de picknies, six in all, 
Whose 'nufE burdens 'pon him fall 
Seben lovin' ones in need, 
Seben hungry mouths fe feed; 
On deir wants he thinks alone, 
Neber dreamin' of his own. 
But gwin' on wid joyful face 
Till him re'ch de market-place. 

Sugar bears no price to-day. 
Though it is de mont' o' May, 



Claude McKay 147 

When de time is hellish hot, 
An' de water cocoanut 
An' de cane bebridge is nice, 
Mix' up wid a lilly ice. 
Big an' little, great an' small, 
Afou yam is all de call ; 
Sugar tup an' gill a quart, 
Yet de people hab de heart 
Wantin' brater top o' i', 
Want de sweatin' higgler fe 
Ram de pan an' pile i' up. 
Yet sell i' fe so-so tup. 

Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, 

As de market is so bad; 

'Pon him han' him res' him chin. 

Quietly sit do'n thinkin' 

Of de loved wife sick in bed, 

An' de children to be fed — 

What de laborers would say 

When dem know him couldn* pay; 

Also what about de mill 

Whe' him hire from ole Bill; 

So him think, an' think on so, 

Till him t'oughts no more could go. 

Then he got up an' began 
Pickin' up him sugar-pan : 
In his ears rang t'rough de din 
*'Only two-an'-six a tin'." 
What a tale he'd got to tell. 
How bad, bad de sugar sell ! 



148 Claude McKay 

Tekin' out de lee amount, 
Him set do'n an' begin count 
All de time him min' deh doubt 
How expenses would pay out; 
Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, 
Sugar sell fe two-an'-six! 



So he journeys on de way, 
Feelin' sad dis market day; 
No e'en buy a little cake 
To gi'e baby when she wake, — 
Passin' 'long de candy-shop 
'Douten eben mek a stop 
To buy drops fe las'y son. 
For de lilly cash nea' done. 
So him re'ch him own a groun', 
An' de children scamper roun', 
Each one stretchin' out him han', 
Lookin' to de poor sad man. 

Oh, how much he felt de blow, 
As he watched dem face fall low, 
When dem wait an' nuttin' came 
An' drew back deir ban's wid shame! 
But de sick wife kissed his brow: 
"Sun, don't get down-hearted now; 
Ef we only pay expense 
We mus' wuk we common-sense, 
Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, 
Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; 



Claude McKay 149 

We mus' try mek two ends meet 
Neber mind how hard be it. 
We won't mind de haul an' pull, 
While dem pickny belly full." 

An' de shadow lef him face, 
An' him felt an inward peace. 
As he blessed his better part 
For her sweet an' gentle heart: 
"Dear one o' my heart, my breat*, 
Won't I lub you to de deat'? 
When my heart is weak an' sad, 
Who but you can mek it glad?" 

So dey kissed an' kissed again, 
An' deir t'oughts were not on pain. 
But was 'way down in de sout' 
Where dey'd wedded in deir yout'. 
In de marnin' of deir life 
Free from all de grief an' strife, 
Happy in de marnin' light, 
Never thinkin' of de night. 

So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; 
An' de profit it could bring, 
A'ter all de business fix'. 
Was a princely two-an'-six. 



Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. 

A PRAYER 

As I lie in bed, 

Flat on my back ; 

There passes across my ceiling 

An endless panorama of things — 

Quick steps of gay-voiced children, 

Adolescence in its wondering silences, 

Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, 

Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, 

Old men gazing silently thru the twilight 

Into the beyond. 

O God, give me words to make my dream-children live. 



151 



152 Joseph S, Cotter, Jr, 



AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? 

Brother, come! 

And let us go unto our God. 

And when we stand before Him 

I shall say — 

"Lord, I do not hate, 

I am hated. 

I scourge no one, 

I am scourged. 

I covet no lands, 

My lands are coveted. 

I mock no peoples, 

My people are mocked." 

And, brother, what shall you say? 



Joseph S. Cotter, Jr, 153 



IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK? 

Why do men smile when I speak, 

And call my speech 

The whimperings of a babe 

That cries but knows not what it wants? 

Is it because I am black? 

Why do men sneer when I arise 
And stand in their councils, 
And look them eye to eye, 
And speak their tongue? 
Is it because I am black ? 



154 Joseph S. Cotter, Jr, 



THE BAND OF GIDEON 

The band of Gideon roam the sky, 
The howling wind is their war-cry, 
The thunder's roll is their trump's peal, 
And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel. 

Each black cloud 

Is a fiery steed. 

And they cry aloud 

With each strong deed, 
"The sword of the Lord and Gideon.'* 

And men below rear temples high 

And mock their God with reasons why, 

And live in arrogance, sin and shame, 

And rape their souls for the world's good name. 

Each black cloud 

Is a fiery steed. 

And they cry aloud 

With each strong deed, 
**The sword of the Lord and Gideon.'* 

The band of Gideon roam the sky 

And view the earth with baleful eye; 

In holy wrath they scourge the land 

With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. 

Each black cloud 

Is a fiery steed. 

And they cry aloud 

With each strong deed, 
*'The sword of the Lord and Gideon.'* 



Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. 1 55 

The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, 
And "Lx)rd have mercy on my soul," 
Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, 
In agony searching for their God. 

Each black cloud 

Is a fiery steed. 

And they cry aloud 

With each strong deed, 
**The sword of the Lord and Gideon." 

And men repent and then forget 

That heavenly wrath they ever met, 

The band of Gideon yet will come 

And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. 

Each black cloud 

Is a fiery steed. 

And they cry aloud 

With each strong deed, 
"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." 



156 Joseph S. Cotter, Jr, 



RAIN MUSIC 

On the dusty earth-drum 
Beats the falling rain; 

Now a whispered murmur, 
Now a louder strain. 

Slender, silvery drumsticks, 
On an ancient drum, 

Beat the mellow music 
Bidding life to come. 

Chords of earth awakened. 
Notes of greening spring, 

Rise and fall triumphant 
Over every thing. 

Slender, silvery drumsticks 
Beat the long tattoo — 

God, the Great Musician, 
Calling life anew. 



Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. 157 



SUPPLICATION 

I am so tired and weary, 

So tired of the endless fight, 

So weary of waiting the dawn 
And finding endless night. 

That I ask but rest and quiet — 
Rest for days that are gone, 

And quiet for the little space 
That I must journey on. 



Roscoe C. Jamison 

THE NEGRO SOLDIERS 

These truly are the Brave, 

These men who cast aside 

Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave 

Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide 

That moves away, to suffer and to die 

For Freedom — when their own is yet denied! 

O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, 

Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified! 

These truly are the Free, 

These souls that grandly rise 

Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs. 

Who march to war with visions in their eyes 

Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs. 

Aforetime, while they front the firing line. 

Stand and behold! They take the field to-day. 

Shedding their blood like Him now held divine. 

That those who mock might find a better way! 



«59 



Jessie Fauset 

LA VIE C'EST LA VIE 

On summer afternoons I sit 
Quiescent by you in the park, 
And idly watch the sunbeams gild 
And tint the ash-trees' bark. 

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk 
And chaffer in the grassy lane; 
And all the while I mark your voice 
Breaking with love and pain. 

I know a woman who would give 
Her chance of heaven to take my place; 
To see the love-light in your eyes, 
The love-glow on your face ! 

And there's a man whose lightest word 
Can set my chilly blood afire; 
Fulfilment of his least behest 
Defines my life's desire. 

But he will none of me, Nor I 
Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said 
The world is full of jests like these. — 
I wish that I were dead. 
i6i 



1 62 Jessie Fauset 



CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE 

Oh little Christ, why do you sigh 

As you look down to-night 
On breathless France, on bleeding France, 

And all her dreadful plight? 
What bows your childish head so low? 

What turns your cheek so white? 

Oh little Christ, why do you moan, 

What Is it that you see 
In mourning France, in martyred France, 

And her great agony? 
Does she recall your own dark day, 

Your own Gethsemane? 

Oh little Christ, why do you weep, 

Why flow your tears so sore 
For pleading France, for praying France, 

A suppliant at God's door? 
*'God sweetened not my cup," you say, 

"Shall He for France do more?" 

Oh little Christ, what can this mean, 

Why must this horror be 
For fainting France, for faithful France, 

And her sweet chivalry? 
"I bled to free all men," you say 

"France bleeds to keep men free." 



Jessie Fauset 1163 

Oh little, lovely Christ — you smile! 

What guerdon is in store 
For gallant France, for glorious France, 

And all her valiant corps? 
''Behold I live, and France, like me^ 

Shall live for evermore." 



164 Jessie Fauset 



DEAD FIRES 

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, 
Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. 

Better the wound forever seeking balm 
Than this gray calm ! 

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, 

The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, 

Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath 
Than passion's death ! 



Jessie Fauset 165 



ORIFLAMME 

"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old 
mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at 
the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes 
you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think 
of my poor children ; they do not know where I be and I don't 
know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up 
at the stars ! ' " — Sojourner Truth. 

I think I see her sitting bowed and black, 

Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, 

Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet 
Still looking at the stars. 

Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, 

Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, 
Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, 
. Still visioning the stars! 



1 66 Jessie Fauset 

OBLIVION 
From the French of Massillon Coicou {Haiti) 

I hope when I am dead that I shall He 

In some deserted grave — I cannot tell you why, 

But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot 
Unknown to every one, by every one forgot. 

There lying I should taste with my dead breath 
The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; 

And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, 
The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state. 

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears 
That f utilely bring torture to dead and dying ears ; 

There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would 
bless 
Oblivion — the shroud and envelope of happiness. 



Anne Spencer 

BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN 

Garden of Shushan! 

After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: 

Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, 

Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye ; 

Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when 

Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; 

And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay 

Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile 

to 
Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine 
Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of 

the wind — 
Slave, send Vashti to her King! 

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame 
The marbled towers of Shushan: 
So at each day's wane, two peers — the one in 
Heaven, the other on earth — welcome with their 
Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen. 

Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee 
Finding glory for mine head, — still, nearly shamed 
Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp 
Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; 

167 



i68 Anne Spencer 

Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, 
Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; 
Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder 
Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; 
Then — Sharon's Rose in my arms. 

And I am hard to force the petals wide; 

And you are fast to suffer and be sad. 

Is any prophet come to teach a new thing 

Now in a more apt time? 

Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; 

How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine ; 

How to the altar may not come to break and drink, 

Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit! 

I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn ; 
I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when 
I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. 
I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. 
No woman in all Persia sets out strange action 
To confuse Persia's lord — 
Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; 
I, thy King, so say ! 



Anne Spencer 169 



AT THE CARNIVAL 

Gay little GIrl-of-the-Diving-Tank, 

I desire a name for you, 

Nice, as a right glove fits; 

For you — who amid the malodorous 

Mechanics of this unlovely thing, 

Are darling of spirit and form. 

I know you — a glance, and what you are 

Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. 

My Limousine-Lady knows you, or 

Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark 

Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? 

Guilt pins a fig-leaf ; Innocence is its own adorning. 

The bull-necked man knows you — this first time 

His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health 

And thinks not of his avocation. 

I came incuriously — 

Set on no diversion save that my mind 

Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds 

In the presence of a blind crowd. 

The color of life was gray. 

Everywhere the setting seemed right 

For my mood. 

Here the sausage and garlic booth 

Sent unholy incense skyward; 

There a quivering female-thing 

Gestured assignations, and lied 

To call it dancing; 



lyo Anne Spencer 

There, too, were games of chance 

With chances for none ; 

But oh ! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last ! 

Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free 

The gaze you send the crowd, 

As though you know the dearth of beauty 

In its sordid life. 

We need you — my Limousine-Lady, 

The bull-necked man and I. 

Seeing you here brave and water-clean, 

Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, 

I am swift to feel that what makes 

The plodder glad is good ; and 

Whatever is good is God. 

The wonder is that you are here ; 

I have seen the queer in queer places, 

But never before a heaven-fed 

Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! 

Little Diver, Destiny for you. 

Like as for me, is shod in silence; 

Years may seep into your soul 

The bacilli of the usual and the expedient ; 

I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day! 



Anne Spencer iji 



THE WIFE-WOMAN 

Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things 

From earth to star ; 

Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and 

Over the border the bar. 

Though rank and fierce the mariner 

Sailing the seven seas, 

He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, 

Coaxing the Pleiades. 

I cannot love them ; and I feel your glad 

Chiding from the grave. 

That my all was only worth at all, what 

Joy to you it gave. 

These seven links the Law compelled 

For the human chain — 

I cannot love them; and you, oh. 

Seven-fold months in Flanders slain ! 

A jungle there, a cave here, bred six 

And a million years. 

Sure and strong, mate for mate, such 

Love as culture fears; 

I gave you clear the oil and wine ; 

You saved me your hob and hearth — 

See how even life may be ere the 

Sickle comes and leaves a swath. 



172 Anne Spencer 

But I can wait the seven of moons, 

Or years I spare, 

Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend 

A drop, nor share — 

So long but outlives a smile and 

'A silken gown ; 

Then gaily I reach up from my shroud. 

And you, glory-clad, reach down. 



Anne Spencer 173 



TRANSLATION 

We trekked into a far country, 

My friend and I. 

Our deeper content was never spoken, 

But each knew all the other said. 

He told me how calm his soul was laid 

By the lack of anvil and strife. 

"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note 

To please the harmony of this sweet silence." 

And when at the day's end 

We laid tired bodies 'gainst 

The loose warm sands. 

And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; 

When star after star came out 

To guard their lovers in oblivion — 

My soul so leapt that my evening prayer 

Stole my morning song! 



174 Anne Spencer 



DUNBAR 

Ah, how poets sing and die! 
Make one song and Heaven takes it; 
Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; 
Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I — 
Ah, how poets sing and die ! 



Alex Rogers 

WHY ADAM SINNED 

"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night 
'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. 
Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right 
An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." 
I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, 
'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made 
Adam sin: 

Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her 

knee 
An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him 
Things he ought to see. 

I knows down in my heart — he'd-a let dat apple be 
But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. 

He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', 

He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. 

He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', 

He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. 

Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin 

An' she'd a come an' tole him 

"Son, don' eat dat — dat's a sin." 

175 



176 Alex Rogers 

But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her 

knee 
An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him 
Things he ought to see. 

I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, 
But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. 



Alex Rogers IJ7 



THE RAIN SONG 

Bro. Simmons 
"Walk right in Brother Wilson — how you feelin' to- 
day?" 

Bro. Wilson. 
"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels 
dat way." 

Bro. Simmons 
"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's 
all you gent'men's been?" 

Bro. White 
"My health is good but my bus'ness slack." 

Bro. Black 
"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back." 

Bro, Brown 
"My ole *ooman*s sick, but I'se alright — " 

Bro. Green 
"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night — " 

Bro. Simmons 
"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!'* 



178 Alex Rogers 

Bro. Turner 
"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here — but here I is!" 

Bro. Simmons 
"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, 
Dare's nothin' to fear — my ole 'ooman's gone — 
My stars ; da weather's pow'ful warm — 
I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm." 

Bro. Brown 
"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say — 
'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day 
Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain 
An' any time you sees 'em you kin look f uh rain : 
Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack 
An' da folks wid rheumatics — dare jints is on da rack- 

All 
"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain. 

"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, 
An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, 
Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain! 

"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws 
'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, 
Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain! 

"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, 
An' in his brown suit he is dressed, 
Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain ! 



Alex Rogers I79 

"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, 
An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, 
Dat am da time fuh rain. 

"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', 
An' when you see him eatin' ; he's eatin' grass : 
Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain !" 

Refrain 
"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, 
'Tain't gwine tub be no rain to-day, 
Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, 
An' you ain't seen no spiders f um dare cobwebs creep ; 
Las' night da sun went bright to bed, 
An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her 

head; 
If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, 
Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day." 



Waverley Turner Carmichael 

KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME 

Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, 

Keep me, Jesus, keep me; 

Help me praise Thy Holy name, 

Keep me, Jesus, keep me. 

O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, 

O my good Lamb, 

Save me, Jesus, save me. 

Hear me as I cry to Thee; 
Keep me, Jesus, keep me; 
May I that bright glory see; 
Keep me, Jesus, keep me. 
O my Lamb, my good Lamb, 
O my good Lamb, 
Keep me, Jesus, keep me. 



i8i 



1 82 Waverley Turner Carmichael 



WINTER IS COMING 

De winter days are drawin' nigh 
An* by the fire I sets an' sigh; 
De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, 
Like it done in days of old. 

De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', 
Fur summer days is been an' pas' ; 
The air is blowin' mighty cold, 
Like it done in days of old. 

De frost is fallin' on de gras' 
An' seem to say "Dis Is yo' las' " — 
De air is blowin' mighty cold 
Like it done in days of old. 




.' 0- 



3 ^■^. 



tlXAM 



I 



\ 



Charles Bertram Johnson 

A LITTLE CABIN 

Des a little cabin 

Big ernuff fur two. 

Des awaitin', honey, 

Cozy fixt fur you ; 

Down dah by de road, 

Not ve'y far from town, 

Waitin' fur de missis, 

When she's ready to come down. 

Des a little cabin. 
An' er acre o' groun*, 
Vines agrowin' on it, 
Fruit trees all aroun*, 
Hollyhawks a-bloomin' 
In de gyahden plot — 
Honey, would you like to 
Own dat little spot? 

Make dat little cabin 
Cheery, clean an' bright, 
With an* angel in it 
Like a ray of light? 
Make dat little palace 
Somethin' fine an' gran', 
Make it like an Eden, 
Fur a lonely man? 
185 



\ 



1 86 Charles Bertram Johnson 

Des you listen, Honey, 
While I 'splain it all. 
How some lady's go'nter 
Boss dat little hall; 
Des you take my han' 
Dat's de way it's writ, 
Des you take my heart, 
Dat's de deed to it. 



Charles Bertram Johnson 187 



NEGRO POETS 

Full many lift and sing 
Their sweet imagining; 
Not yet the Lyric Seer, 
The one bard of the throng, 
With highest gift of song, 
Breaks on our sentient ear. 

Not yet the gifted child. 
With notes enraptured, wild. 
That storm and throng the heart, 
To make his rage our own, 
Our hearts his lyric throne ; 
Hard won by cosmic art. 

I hear the sad refrain, 
Of slavery's sorrow-strain; 
The broken half-lispt speech 
Of freedom's twilit hour; 
The greater growing reach 
Of larger latent power. 

Here and there a growing note 
Swells from a conscious throat; 
Thrilled with a message fraught 
The pregnant hour is near; 
We wait our Lyric Seer, 
By whom our wills are caught. 



88 Charles Bertram Johnson 

Who makes our cause and wrong 
The motif of his song; 
Who sings our racial good, 
Bestows us honor's place, 
The cosmic brotherhood 
Of genius — not of race. 

Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, 
Of fame's immortal few 
Would still be deathless born; 
Frail Dunbar, black or white, 
In Fame's eternal light, 
Would shine a Star of Morn. 

An unhorizoned range. 
Our hour of doubt and change, 
Gives song a nightless day. 
Whose pen with pregnant mirth 
Will give our longings birth, 
And point our souls the way? 



Otto Leland Bohanan 

THE DAWN'S AWAKE! 

The Dawn's awake! 

A flash of smoldering flame and fire 
Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, 

O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, 

The torch of gold is borne. 

The Dawn's awake! 

The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. 
And music singing in the hills 

A paean of eternal spring 

Voices the new awakening. 

The Dawn's awake! 

Whispers of pent-up harmonies, 
With the mingled fragrance of the trees; 
Faint snatches of half-forgotten song — 
Fathers! torn and numb, — 

The boon of light we craved, awaited long. 
Has come, has come! 



189 



190 Otto Leland Bohanan 



THE WASHER-WOMAN 

A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, 

The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, 

And all day long the rub and scrub 

With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. 

Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years 

And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? 

In silence she rubbed . . . But her face I had seen, 

Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean. 



Theodore Henry Shackelford 

THE BIG BELL IN ZION 

Come, children, hear the joyful sound, 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
Go spread the glad news all around, 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 

Chorus 
Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 

The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 
The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 
Ding, Dong, Ding. 

I've been abused and tossed about, 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
But glory to the Lamb, I shout! 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 

My bruthah jus' sent word to me. 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
That he'd done set his own self free. 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 

Ole massa said he could not go, 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
But he's done reached Ohio sho\ 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
191 



192 Theodore Henry Shackelford 

Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 
Den ril run away myself nex' week. 

Ding, Dong, Ding. 

Chorus 
Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 

The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 

The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, 

Ding, Dong Ding. 



Lucian B. Watkins 

STAR OF ETHIOPIA 

Out in the Night thou art the sun 
Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, 
The faith-high height whereon they see 
The glory of their Day To Be — 
The peace at last when all is done. 

The night is dark but, one by one, 
Thy signals, ever and anon. 

Smile beacon answers to their plea. 

Out in the Night. 

Ah, Life ! thy storms these cannot shun ; 
Give them a hope to rest upon, 

A dream to dream eternally. 

The strength of men who would be free 
And win the battle race begun, 

Out in the Night! 



X93 



194 Lucian B. Watkins 



TWO POINTS OF VIEW 

From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet 

And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, 

There on yon mountain-throne — that sun-gold crest! 

From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat : 

How bright and still and warm and soft and green 

Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest ! 



Lucian B. Watkins 195 



TO OUR FRIENDS 

We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams 
Untouched by bondage and its rod, 

Burn on ! and on ! and on ! It seems 

We shall have Friends — while God is God! 



Benjamin Brawley 

MY HERO 
{To Robert Gould Shaw) 

Flushed with the hope of high desire, 

He buckled on his sword, 
To dare the rampart ranged with fire. 

Or where the thunder roared ; 
Into the smoke and flame he went, 

For God's great cause to die — 
A youth of heaven's element. 

The flower of chivalry. 

This was the gallant faith, I trow, 

Of which the sages tell; 
On such devotion long ago 

The benediction fell; 
And never nobler martyr burned, 

Or braver hero died, 
Than he who worldly honor spurned 

To serve the Crucified. 

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere 
May pass beyond the pale, 

And wander over moor and mere 
To find the Holy Grail; 
197 



198 Benjamin Brawl ey 

But ever yet the prize forsooth 

My hero holds in fee; 
And he is Blameless Knight in truth, 

And Galahad to me. 



Benjamin Brawley 199 



CHAUCER 

Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, 
Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; 
Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold 
Give darkness to the dark and welcome light ; 
Across the night of ages strike the gleams, 
And leading on the gilded host appears 
An old man writing in a book of dreams, 
And telling tales of lovers for the years; 
Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers. Stay; 
In Nature's garden what a mad rout sings ! 
Let's hear these motley pilgrims wile away 
The tedious hours with stories of old things; 
Or might some shinin^eagle claim 
These lowly numbers for the House of Fame ! 



f^^ 



Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. 

TO A SKULL 

Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, 

Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, 

Why your smirk and empty smile 

As the hours away you wile ? 

Has the earth become such bore 

That it pleases nevermore? 

Whence your joy through sun and rain? 

Is 't because of loss of pain? 

Have you learned what men learn not 

That earth's substance turns to rot? 

After learning now you scan 

Vain endeavors man by man? 

Do you mind that you as they 

Once was held by mystic sway ; 

Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, 

Lolled and with the minutes played? 

Sighed for honors ; battles planned ; 

Sipped of cups that wisdom banned 

But would please the weak frail flesh; 

Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? 

Now that you are but a skull 

Glimpse you life as life is, full 

Of beauties that we miss 

Till time withers with his kiss? 

20Z 



202 Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. 

Do you laugh in cynic vein 
Since you cannot try again? 
And you know that we, like you, 
Will too late our failings rue? 
Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull 
What deep broodings, o'er you mull? 
Tell me why you smirk and smile 
Ere I pass life's sunset stile. 



Appendix 



Appendix 

PLACIDO'S SONNET TO HIS MOTHER 

DESPIDA A MI MADRE 

{En La Capilla) 

Si la suerte fatal que me ha cabldo, 

Y el triste fin de mi sangrienta historia, 
Al salir de esta vida transitoria 

Deja tu corazon de muerte herido; 
Baste de llanto: el animo afligido 
Recobre su quietud ; moro en la gloria, 

Y mi placida lira a tu memoria 
Lanza en la tumba su postrer sonido. 

Sonido dulce, melodioso y santo, 
Glorioso, espiritual, puro y divino, 
Inocente, espontaneo como el llanto 

Que vertiera al nacer : ya el cuello inclino ! 
Ya de la religion me cubre el manto ! 
Adios, mi madre! adios — El Peligrino. 



205 



2o6 Appendix 

FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER 

{In the Chapel) 

The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, 
The mournful ending of my years of strife, 
This changing world I leave, and to another 
In blood and terror goes my spirit's life. 

But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping 
And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; 
I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping 
Across my lyre to wake its dying strains. 

A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing 
All glorious and holy, pure, divine. 
And innocent, unconscious as the wailing 

I uttered on my birth; and I resign 
Even now, my life, even now descending slowly. 
Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. 
Mother, farewell! God keep thee — and forever! 
Translated by William Cullen Bryant, 



Appendix 207 



PLACIDO'S FAREWELL TO HIS MOTHER 

( Written in the Chapel of the Hospital de Santa Cristina 
on the Night Before His Execution) 

If the unfortunate fate engulfing me, 
The ending of my history of grief, 
The closing of my span of years so brief, 
Mother, should wake a single pang in thee, 
Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote; 
I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled, 
My lyre before it is forever stilled 
Breathes out to thee its last and dying note. 

A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh, 
Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere — 
Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry 
I gave at birth — And now the hour is here — 
O God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins! 
Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins. 

Translated by James Weldon Johnson, 



Biographical Index of Authors 

BOHANAN, Otto Leland. Born in Washington, D. C. Edu- 
cated in the public schools in Washington. He is a grad- 
uate of Howard University, School of Liberal Arts, Wash- 
ington, D. C, and did special work in English at the 
Catholic University in that city. At present he is engaged 
in the musical profession in New York. 

Braithwaite, William Stanley. Born in Boston, 1878. 
Mainly self-educated. A critic of poetry and the friend of 
poets. Author of Lyrics of Life, The House of Falling 
Leaves, The Poetic Year, The Story of the Great War, 
etc. Editor and compiler of The Book of Elizabethan 
Verse, The Book of Georgian Verse, The Book of Restora- 
tion Verse and a series of yearly anthologies of magazine 
verse. One of the literary editors of the Boston Transcript. 

Brawley, Benjamin. Born at Columbia, S. C, 1882. Edu- 
cated at the Atlanta Baptist College, the University of 
Chicago and Harvard University. For two years he was 
professor of English at Howard University, Washington, 
D. C. Later he became dean of Morehouse College, At- 
lanta, Ga. Author of A Short History of the American 
Negro, The Negro in Literature and Art, A Short History 
of the English Drama, A Social History of the American 
Negro, etc. Now living in Boston and engaged in re- 
search and writing. 

Campbell, James Edwin. Was born at Pomeroy, Ohio, in the 
early sixties. His early life was somewhat shrouded in 
mystery; he never referred to it even to his closest asso- 
ciates. He was educated in the public schools of his native 
city. Later he spent a while at Miami College. In the 
late eighties and early nineties he was engaged in news- 
paper work in Chicago. He wrote regularly on the various 
dailies of that city. He was also one of a group that 
issued the Four O'Clock Magazine, a literary publication 
which flourished for several years. He died, perhaps, 
twenty years ago. He was the author of Echoes from Thti 
Cabin and Elsenuhere, a volume of poems. 

209 



2IO Biographical Index of Authors 

Carmichael, Waverley Turner. A young man yirho had 
never been out of his native state of Alabama until several 
years ago when he entered one of the summer courses at 
Harvard University. His education to that time had been 
very limited and he had endured poverty and hard work. 
His verses came to the attention of one of the Harvard 
professors. He has since published a volume, From the 
Heart of a Folk. He served with the 367th Regiment, 
"The Buffaloes," during the World War and saw active 
service in France. At present he is employed as a postal 
clerk in Boston, Mass. 

Corrothers, James D., 1869-1919. Born in Cass County, 
Michigan. Student in Northwestern University, minister 
and poet. Many of his poems appeared in The Century 
Magazine. 

Cotter, Joseph S., Jr., 1895-1919. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, 
in the room in which Paul Laurence Dunbar first read his 
dialect poems in the South. He was precocious as a child, 
having read a number of books before he was six years 
old. All through his boyhood he had the advantage and 
inspiration of the full library of poetic books belonging to 
his father, himself a poet of considerable talent. Young 
Cotter attended Fisk University but left in his second year 
because he had developed tuberculosis. A volume of verse. 
The Band of Gideon, and a number of unpublished poems 
were written during the six years in which he was an 
invalid. 



Dandridge, Ray G. Born at Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882. Educated 
in the grammar and high school of his native city. In 
1912, as the result of illness, he lost the use of both legs 
and his right arm. He does most of his writing lying flat 
in bed and using his left hand. He is the author of The 
Poet and Other Poems. 

Davis, Daniel Webster. Born in Virginia, near Richmond. 
For a number of years he was a minister and principal 
of the largest public school in Richmond. He died in that 
city some years ago. He was the author of *Weh Doivn 
Souf, a volume of verse. He was very popular as an 
orator and a reader of his own poems. 

Dett, R. Nathaniel. Born at Drummondville, Canada, 1882. 
Graduate of the Oberlin Conservatory of Music. He is a 
composer, most of his compositions being based on themes 
from the old "slave songs." His "Listen to de Lambs" is 
widely used by choral societies. He is director of music 



Biographical Index of Authors 2il 

at Hampton Institute. He is also the author of The Album 
of a Heart, a. volume of verse. 

Du Bois, W. E. BuRGHARDT. Born at Great Barrington, Mass., 
1868. Educated at Fisk University, Harvard University 
and the University of Berlin. For a number of years pro- 
fessor of economics and history at Atlanta University. 
Author of the Suppression of the Sla've Trade, The Phila- 
delphia Negro, The Souls of Black Folk, John Broivn, 
Darkivater, etc. He is the editor of The Crisis. 

Dunbar, Paul Laurence. Born at Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died 
1906. Dunbar was educated in the public schools. He 
wrote his early poems while working as an elevator boy. 
His first volume of poems. Oak and Ivy, was published in 
1893 sJ^d sold largely through his own efforts. This was 
followed by Majors and Minors, Lyrics of Loivly Life, 
Lyrics of the Hearthside, Lyrics of Love and Laughter, 
Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadoiu and Hovjdy, Honey, 
Hoivdy. Lyrics of Lovjly Life, published in New York in 
1896 with an introduction written by William Dean 
Howells, gained national recognition for Dunbar. In addi- 
tion to poetical w^orks, Dunbar was the author of four 
novels. The Uncalled, The Love of Landry, The Sport of 
the Gods, and The Fanatics. He also published several 
volumes of short stories. Partly because of his magnificent 
voice and refined manners, he was a very successful reader 
of his own poems and was able to add greatly to their 
popularity. 



Fauset, Jessie Redmon. Born at Snow Hill, New Jersey. She 
was educated in the public schools of Philadelphia, at 
Cornell University and the University of Pennsylvania. 
For a while she was teacher of French in the Dunbar High 
School, Washington, D. C. Author of a number of un- 
collected poems and several short stories. She is literary- 
editor of The Crisis. 



Hill, Leslie Pinckney. Born at Lynchburg, Va., 1880. He was 
educated in the public schools at Lynchburg and at Har- 
vard University. On graduation he became a teacher of 
English and methods at Tuskegee. Author of the Wings 
of Oppression, a volume of verse. He is principal of the 
Cheyney Training School for Teachers at Cheyney, Pa. 

HoLLOWAY, John Wesley. Born in Merri weather County, Ga., 
1865. His father, who learned to read and write in 



212 Biographical Index of Authors 

slavery, became one of the first colored teachers in Georgia 
after the Civil War. Mr. Holloway was educated at 
Clark University, Atlanta, Ga., and at Fisk University, 
Nashville, Tenn. He was for a while a member of the 
Fisk Jubilee Singers. Has been a teacher and is now a 
preacher. He is the author of From the Desert^ a volume 
of verse. 



Jamison, Roscoe C. Born at Winchester, Tenn., 1888; died 
1918. He was a graduate of Fisk University. 

Johnson, Charles Bertram. Born at Callao, Mo., 1880. He 
was educated in the public schools of his home town and 
at Western College, Lincoln Institute and at Chicago Uni- 
versity. He was a teacher for a number of years and is 
now a pastor of a church at Moberly, Mo. He is the 
author of Songs of My People. 

Johnson, Fenton. Born at Chicago, 1888. He was educated 
in the public schools and at the University of Chicago and 
Northwestern University. The author of A Little Dream- 
ing, Songs of the Soil and Visions of the Dusk. He has 
devoted much time to journalism and the editing of a 
magazine. 

Johnson, Georgia Douglas. Born in Atlanta, Ga., 1886. She 
was educated in the public schools of that city and at 
Atlanta University. She is the author of a volume of 
verse, The Heart of a Woman and other poems. 

Johnson, James Weldon. Bom at Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. 
He was educated in the public schools of Jacksonville, at 
Atlanta University and at Columbia University. He 
taught school in his native town for several years. Later 
he came to New York with his brother, J. Rosamond John- 
son, and began writing for the musical comedy stage. He 
served seven years as U. S. Consul in Venezuela and 
Nicaragua. Author of The Autobiography of an Ex- 
colored Man, Fifty Years and Other Poems, and the Eng- 
lish libretto to Goyescas, the Spanish grand opera, pro- 
duced at the Metropolitan Opera House in 1915. 

Jones, Edward Smyth. Attracted national attention about ten 
years ago by walking some hunderds of miles from his 
home in the South to Harvard University. Arriving 
there, he was arrested on a charge of vagrancy. While 
in jail, he wrote a poem, "Harvard Square." The poem 
created a sentiment that led to his quick release. He is 
the author of The Sylvan Cabin, 



Biographical Index of Authors 213 

Jones, Joshua Henry, Jr. He is engaged in newspaper work 
in Boston and is the author of a volume of poems, The 
Heart of the World. 

Margetson, George Reginald. Was born at St. Kitts, British 
West Indies, in 1877. He was educated at the Moravian 
school in his district. He came to the United States in 

1897. Mr. Margetson has found it necessary to work hard 
to support a large family and his poems have been written 
in his spare moments. He is the author of two volumes of 
verses. Songs of Life and The Fledgling Bard and the 
Poetry Society and, in addition, a large number of un- 
collected poems. Mr. Margetson lives in Boston. 

McClellan, George Marion. Born at Belfast, Tenn., i860. 
Graduate of Fisk University and Hartford Theological 
Seminary, teacher, principal and author. He is the author 
of The Path of Dreams. 

McKay, Claude. Born in Jamaica, West Indies, 1889. Such 
education as he gained in boyhood he received from his 
brother. He served for a while as a member of the 
Kingston Constabulary. In 1912 he came to the United 
States. For two years he was a student of agriculture at 
the Kansas State College. Since leaving school Mr. McKay 
has turned his hand to any kind of work to earn a living. 
He has worked in hotels and on the Pullman cars. He 
is to-day associate editor of The Liberator. He is the author 
of two volumes of poems, Songs of Jamaica and Spring in 
Neiv Hampshire, the former published in Jamaica and the 
latter in London. 

MooRE, William H. A. Was born in New York City and re- 
ceived his education in the public schools and at the City 
College. He also did some special work at Columbia 
University. He has had a long career as a newspaper 
man, working on both white and colored publications. 
He now lives in Chicago. He is the author of Dusk Songs, 
a volume of poems. 

Nelson, Alice Moore (Dunbar). Born at New Orleans, La., 
1875. She was educated in the schools of New Orleans 
and has taken special courses at Cornell University, Co- 
lumbia University, and the University of Pennsylvania. 
Author of Violets and Other Tales, The Goodness of St. 
Rocque, Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence, and The Dunbar 
Speaker. She was married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 

1898. She has been a teacher and is well known on the 
lecture platform and as an editor. 



214 Biographical Index of Authors 

Rogers, Alex. Born at Nashville, Tenn., 1876. Educated in 
the public schools of that city. For many years a writer 
of words for popular songs. He wrote many of the songs 
for the musical comedies in which Williams and Walker 
appeared. He is the author of The Jonah Man, Nobody 
and other songs made popular by Mr. Bert Williams. 

Shackelford, Theodore Henry. Author of Mammy's Cracklin* 
Bread and Other Poems, and My Country and Other Poems. 

Spencer, Anne. Born in Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated 
at the Virginia Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. She lives at 
Lynchburg and takes great pride and pleasure in her 
garden. 

Watkins, Lucian B., was born in Virginia. He served overseas 
in the great war and lost his health. He died in 1921. 
He was the author of a large number of uncollected poems. 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

After the Winter 138 

And What Shall You Say? 152 

At the Carnival 169 

At the Closed Gate of Justice 27 

Band of Gideon, The 154 

Banjo Player, The 122 

Barrier, The 141 

Before the Feast of Shushan 167 

Big Bell in Zion, The 191 

Black Mammies 98 

Brothers 85 

Butterfly in Church, A 56 

Calling the Doctor 94 

Chaucer 199 

Children of the Sun 117 

Christmas at Melrose 102 

Christmas Eve in France 162 

Compensation 25 

Corn Song, The 96 

Creation, The 76 

Cunjah Man, De 18 

Dawn's Awake! The . . . 189 

Dead Fires 164 

Death Song, A 16 

Debt, The 10 

Del Cascar 63 

Dogwood Blossoms 55 

Dream and the Song 36 

Drum Majah, De 114 

Dunbar 174 

Dusk Song 43 

Feet of Judas, The 58 

Fifty Years 89 

Flame-Heart 143 

Harlem Dancer, The 136 

Harlem Shadows 137 

215 



216 Index of Titles 

PAGE 

Haunted Oak, The n 

Heart of a Woman, The 127 

Hills of Sewanee, The 57 

Hog Meat 41 

If We Must Die 134 

Indignation Dinner, An 34 

In the Matter of Two Men 32 

Ironic: LL.D. 65 

Is It Because I Am Black? 153 

'Ittle Touzle Head no 

It Was Not Fate 46 

I Want to Die While You Love Me .... . 130 

Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me 181 

La Vie C'est la Vie 161 

Litany of Atlanta, A 49 

Little Brown Baby 5 

Little Cabin, A 185 

Lost Illusions 129 

Lover's Lane 8 

Lynching, The 133 

Miss Melerlee 93 

Mother Night 83 

My Hero 197 

My Little Dreams 132 

Negro Love Song, A 3 

Negro Poets 187 

Negro Serenade 17 

Negro Singer, The 29 

Negro Soldiers, The 159 

New Day, The 119 

O Black and Unknown Bards 73 

Oblivion 166 

or Doc' Hyar 21 

Oriflamme 165 

O Southland 84 

Paul Laurence Dunbar 28 

Prayer, A 151 

Rain Music 156 

Rain Song, The 177 

Rhapsody 68 



Index of Titles 217 

PAGE 

Road to the Bow, The 30 

Rubinstein Staccato Etude, The 125 

Sandy Star and Willie Gee 59 

Scarlet Woman, The 123 

Scintilla 66 

Sence You Went Away 75 

Ships That Pass in the Night 7 

Sic Vita 67 

Song of Thanks, A 107 

Sonnet 183 

Sprin' Fevah 113 

Spring in New Hampshire 139 

Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society . 69 

Star of Ethiopia 193 

Summer Magic 104 

Supplication 157 

Teacher, The 105 

Time to Die 109 

Tired 121 

Tired Worker, The 140 

To a Skull 201 

To O. E. A 142 

To Our Friends 195 

To the White Fiends 135 

Translation 173 

Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves 64 

Tuskegee 101 

Two-an'-Six 145 

Two Points of View 194 

Uncle Eph's Banjo Song 20 

Washer- Woman, The 190 

'Weh Down Souf 39 

Welt 131 

When de Co'n Pone's Hot 14 

When 01' Sis Judy Pray 23 

White Witch, The 80 

Why Adam Sinned 175 

Wife-Woman, The 171 

Winter Is Coming 182 

Youth 128 

Zalka Peetruza 112 



